The front office lady that looked like a man as she handed over her belongings.  She remembered the man-lady's plump hotdog like fingers as her iPhone was pressed into her small, and delicate hand. One phone call allowed. With barely any battery charge left. Everyone she knew was busy at work back home. Scrambling to think of someone, anyone, she called her dry cleaner. Ring. Ring. Ring. A cheerful female voice answers, "He-roe, Sunshine Dry Creaning, how may help?" She nervously spoke, "Uhh, yeah this is-- Taylor. I need you to get me out of this place where I'm at". A pause. "Tay-loe? You have ticket? I can no barely hear." Click. The man-lady with fat fingers wearing man pants with a man shirt bellowed loudly, "We can't let you leave unless you reach someone on the phone!" Miraculously, the young girl's cousin twice removed in Kansas, five thousand miles away, picks up the next call. Hot dog fingers looks angry as she watches the young girl drag her belongings down a well maintained flowery garden path.  The iron gate squeaks open, and crashes loudly behind her. Her nerves feel shot, and she wonders how, or, even if she'll make it home, alive.  In the hot desert 120 degree sun she juggles a large water bottle in one hand as she drags a large melting trash bag on the lava like-desert pavement. She keeps having to run back to retrieve shampoo bottles. Stolen toothbrushes. Scattered clothes. Determined. She keeps walking with her garbage bag, and a single suitcase bumping along the gravel road.  An old beat-up station wagon slows down, and stops next to her. A car door swings open, and the young girl climbs inside.

Someone hands her a cold beer. The hot air from the open window burns her face as her hair blows carelessly in the air. They speed down a lonely desert highway located somewhere in, Nowhere, CA.