The last night bus of the route screeched to a halt in front of a lonely sign that read: Redwood Plains. The hour sat somewhere between twilight and full darkness, and the Nevada sky was already cooling into deep violet. A cold wind brushed across the empty parking lot, sending curls of dust clinging to the boots of Miles Harwood as he stepped down onto cracked pavement.
He carried only one thing worth mentioning, a faded canvas backpack strapped across his chest. Inside, brick-like stacks of cash were packed into plastic sleeves. Eighty thousand dollars in worn bills. Every one earned through a year in places where daylight barely existed and names were never given aloud. A year in the mines beyond the border. A year where mountains were blown open for minerals, and men went missing without anyone pausing to count.