The incisions running up my arms pulse in pained protest. The red rice-sack bandana tight around my forehead helps me ignore the tingling and focus on the task at hand. I must be alert. Never know what’s out here. In the distance, the highway trickle of cars spews smog into the morning air. The graveyard’s a shortcut to the barrio, the place of pillage for anything useful.
Published at Cultured Vultures