Kosslyn: Dry foundations
Chocolate-brown and larger than a football, the cow patty had lain undisturbed on the parched soil of a nameless New Mexican ghost town. Undisturbed, that is, until my left foot landed right in the middle of it. Fortunately for me, the patty was rock-solid — a good platform to stand on.
I looked around. Barbed wire fences sporadically separated a small community of adobe homes. All had broken windows. Sun-bleached cars from the 1940s rusted slowly in driveways while sheets of corrugated tin lay haphazardly in backyards.
The three of us had intended to take a five-minute...
What the hell?