"Which way to Omaha?"
Paint flakes blew in the wind. It smelled like gas. Anna's hair was matted; she could feel it knot further. She had nothing; the pockets of her pants were empty except for lint and paint flakes. And one quarter.
The men here knew nothing except that a woman, however unattractive and hagard, was standing in front of them. Who cared where Omaha was, anyways?
"You want some money, sweetie?" One of them whistled. "Ain't no one givin' you money in Omaha."
She rolls her eyes and walks away. Dust settles in the space above her clavicle. Four days here and all her clothes were the same grey. Or beige, maybe. She couldn't tell anymore. Too much dust in the eyes. The men were grey blobs in front of a gray building in this whole grey land.
The last payphone in the world is broken and doesn't accept quarters. The next one is in Omaha.