High on the road to Reno, hard-eyed and hungover, I stood. The dust was flying down the high hardpan plains in screaming wind-devils—but I hardly noticed. I hardly noticed anything anymore.
Bearded, greasy, and leaning against my filthy old rucksack out in the sand by the empty highway, I wasn’t the 25-year-old the high school guidance counselor might hold up as a portrait of success.
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