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It’s dead inside Favorites bar this afternoon, where the propped-open
door spills a bit of light onto the ancient Elvis pinball machine and
the grumpy man puffing on a cigarette in front of the video poker machine.
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Take a turn off the main road here, where the constant Wyoming wind
blows, and it’s almost like entering a faded postcard of Americana: a
lonely town hall, a glistening white library and a one-counter post
office where no one waits in line.
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Down a quiet gravel road lined by homes, six tigers and two leopards
live amid the roosters and cats in a small backyard.
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By the time the rainy night stretched into early morning, Samantha
Spady had been drinking and partying for hours.
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When Steve Marsh first drove into this dusty town outside Las Vegas,
he took one look at the gravel roads and sagebrush flats and grunted:
“This is in the middle of nowhere.”
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Damned by his religion, denied by his family and left with nowhere
else to go, the teenager slept in a cold tool shed just steps from a
company owned by his relatives.
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It’s barely dawn when Mike Fitzpatrick starts his shift with a blur
of colorful maps, figures and endless charts, but already he knows
what the day will bring.
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On the Oklahoma plains, where the tall grass and flowing creeks
provide refuge for ragged and graying wild horses, rancher John
Hughes keeps burial pits ready for the ones too weak to survive
another winter.
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Just outside this mountain town, where acres of ponderosa pines turn
into a Christmas-green blur, Tom Whitham eyes the weary, struggling forest.
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