Cuatro
Cody Wilson flicks his cigarette butt into the dead bushes, then lights another. Its burning end glows a red spot in the waning daylight as he sucks the filter tip, drawing the smoke deep into his nicotine-fuzzed lungs. Slouched on the scuffed metal step outside his trailer, he smokes his way through another pack of Marlboro Reds. The smell of unemptied garbage from his tiny kitchen overpowers the tobacco smoke. It’s bad, but he’s in no hurry to get rid of it. It’s no worse than the usual smell of his “community”—a noxious stew of stale beer, crystal meth and baby s**t.
This evening like most evenings, Cody sits there contemplating the grounds of the trailer park—a depressing panorama of cracked concrete pavement, Florida dirt and a mishmash of trailers that are just as shitty as
