Darling,

Are You Ready for Your Close-Up?

“Here he comes,” I shouted. Already the heat was pressing in through the glass. I put my face up against the window, feeling the desert breathe its boredom onto our bus.

“He’s grabbing the bolt cutters,” Tom whispered. He landed against the window with a soft thud. Tucker crossed the aisle and slid in next to me on the couch. We watched the man move through the rows, finally stopping at the furthest Porta Potty, grabbing the plastic zip tie and crunching it between the bolt cutter’s jaws.

“First freshie is up,” Tucker said, “who wants it?”

Steve dashed down the stairs without a word. We heard the door whoosh open, felt the desert heat rush in. Then whomp, closed again. We watched him cross the tarmac and walk into the dirt, casual, no big deal. But we knew it was an emergency. He had his own wipes.

“Genius,” Tom whispered, “he brought wipes.”

“Fresh rolls, ahead,” I told him, rubbing my hands together greedily, “might even have to unwrap them, ourselves. Forget the wipes.”

We heard the next zip tie snap and it was like a starting gun. I took off, vaguely aware of Tucker at my heels. He was faster than me but I knew it wouldn’t matter. The Porta Johns were close and I got out the door first.