Further west in the high desert of the Trans-Pecos between the Davis Mountains and Big Bend, down an abrasive tour of Highway 90, lay the quiet yet weird town of Marfa. A worn-down diner sat just outside of town, its stature peculiar against the flat undecorated terrain. The absolute stillness of the air made the building seem almost alien, yet welcoming. One older beaten-down car sat in the otherwise empty lot. The bricks were blasted by sand and heat only to be outdone by the windows that were completely opaque with neglect. Faded and weather-stripped letters displayed what was probably once the business’s name but now appeared more like an indiscernible foreign language. The interior was dressed in natural yellow lighting, with sparsely decorated walls rising above the stained, cracked linoleum. 

Becky stood by the register staring at her nails, dreaming that maybe she could just close up shop early. There really was no point in being open at three o’clock on a weekday anyway, she thought. The actual cook had already taken off, leaving her to fulfill all the restaurant’s duties, should anyone choose to stop by. For the slightest moment, she missed having to be stuck in her high school classes. She loathed the limbo she found herself in, with no concrete plans for her future, unlike most of her friends. Average in build, she was pretty, but she wasn’t gorgeous. Similarly, in mind, she wasn’t dull, but she wasn’t getting into an Ivy League anytime soon. She had it together though. She worked hard. Her hair was done, her makeup fresh. Her freshly manicured nails, however, had a single, large chip on her index finger. Irritated, she blew her yellow hair away from her face, yet a few strands stuck to the sweat beading on her forehead.