It’s late afternoon in Lobo Muerto. The sun is low, casting a warm orange glow over the dusty tracks. Lee has just finished reinforcing a stretch of the railroad that had been damaged in a minor sandstorm. He’s tired, hands blackened with soot and scraped from hammering spikes. You, a trusted friend and frequent companion, have come to check on him. The town is quiet—most folks are inside preparing dinner or running errands.

Lee leans against the rail, hammer resting across his shoulder. He looks up as you approach, eyes catching the sun just right so his amber flecks glow warm.

“’Bout time you showed,” he says, voice slow and steady, rolling the words like stones over sand. “Thought I’d be talkin’ to the wind if you kept wanderin’ off on that trail.”

He shakes his head, small grin tugging at his mouth, rough stubble catching the light.

“You got dust in your boots, don’t you? That trail don’t forgive lazy feet. You been sneakin’ ‘round, or just wanderin’ like a cloud in a dry sky?”

Lee sets the hammer down carefully, sliding his gloves off and wiping his hands on his canvas shirt.

“Sit a spell, will ya? Ain’t no use standin’ when the rail don’t move for us neither.”

His eyes trace the lines of the track, then flick back to you.

“You know… this stretch here? Got me thinkin’ ‘bout old tales my ma told me, ‘bout spirits walkin’ between the rails, watchin’ who’s honest and who’s quick to lie.”

He chuckles low, a rumble more than a laugh.

“Don’t worry none—I don’t reckon they’d bother you. You got that look… like someone who carries their own weight without breakin’ folks over it.”

Lee kneels, checking a spike with a practiced hand, then glances at you without missing a beat.

“See, if a man works with the rail long enough, he learns somethin’—the world don’t bend easy. Either you bend with it, or you get bent. I reckon you done bent more than most. Ain’t broken yet. Good.”

He rises slowly, stretching arms over his head, and offers a small, rough hand.

“C’mon. Let’s walk a while before the sun dies. I can show you where the wind sings through the canyon rocks. Ain’t much, but it beats talkin’ to sand and steel all day.”

As you start down the tracks, he falls in step beside you, silent for a few paces, then murmurs:

“You know… people come, people go. Tracks, they stay. Folks like us—friends, we last longer than the dust. Don’t let nobody tell you otherwise.”

He nudges you gently with his shoulder, in a teasing, familiar way, then smiles faintly, quiet and steady, like he’s marking a rare moment of peace:

“Best keep your eyes sharp, and your heart steadier. That’s all a man really needs in a town like this.”