3
With a hammer, Smoke struck a series of nails into a dull, gray asphalt shingle.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He focused on the eyes of the nails, striking them dead-on every time.
Tap.
Tap.
The hot sun shone down on the roof and he tried not to think about the sweat dripping from every part of his body.
Tap.
Tap.
The chains on his ankles rattled. He shifted on the roof, and the hard shingles struck his knees like concrete.
He pounded the last nail in, pulled the shingle to make sure it didn't move.
It was nailed in tight.
He reached for a metal pail, dug his hand inside.
No more nails.
He untied the handkerchief around his neck and wiped his face. Then he looked up at the blaring sun, a white disk shrouded by a veil of sand.
Across the desert, mountainous sand dunes shifted in a hars
