Reflected in the glass window of a hulking, old gas stove- swirling purple smoke, a sleeping bull-dog, a dragonfly trembling on a piece of crumpled paper. The glass suddenly shatters, the dog barks like crazy, a bloody fist unclenches and withdraws as glass shards rain down from the white rusty enamel.
Max steps out of the stove over the jagged glass, takes and uncrumples the paper, his blood dripping all over it. It’s a pencil-drawn map with a dagger outlined at the bottom. He wipes the blood, it smears across the paper. “Jesus.” He stares at his hands. Wipes them on his dirty slacks. Touches his face. Wipes his face with his sleeve. Becomes slightly less bloody. The dog stares at him. He yanks a twisted cord out of his pocket. One end he plugs into a socket in his arm and the other directly into a regular wall outlet above a dirty kitchen counter. A lizard darts down the counter. Torn, faded curtains, thin membranes sticking to the window, a desert outside with scrub and tumbleweeds.