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...- empty, demanding empty.  She held the bottle down on the bar as though it would slip away from her, or as if she might slip from the bar.  The condensation ran cold down her fingers, down the palms of her hands.  She was in El Paso, a town she didn't know hide nor tail of, buying beers for lonesome gunmen.  She squeezed her eyes tight, squeezing the stars out of them, praying for highway.

"What's waitin' for you in Austin?"  Startled from her prayers, Angela struggled to get hold of one of the words rushing past her tongue.  Her shirt was stuck to her back with sweat, sweat was running down her chin, sweat was dripping from her brow and yet this man was dry as that highway, dry as the desert, probably just as cold on moonless nights.  The man leaned over his beer, staring down the neck of the bottle.  "I asked you," he half whispered, sliding his cold stare up to her eyes, "what's waitin' for you down in Austin?" 

As calm as she could manage, Angela stood from the bar stool and made her way for the door. "Nothin'. A whole lot of nothin'."

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