Don't own 'em
Sweat trickled down his back. Cotton T-shirt stuck to his skin. The air didn’t move. An invisible wall since he’d stepped from the semi, shouldered his duffel, stood in the dust.
The town baked in the afternoon heat. Waves rose from the pavement, he wiped stinging drops from his eyes to read the sign. Buena Vista TrailerPark faded, warped from baseball bats, a dozen bullets.
Metallic paint glittered on the Mustang driving slow, stopping. A stained cowboy hat leaned from the passenger side. Long hair, charming smile, open beer between denim-clad thighs.
“Need a ride?”
“Get in, boy.”