Illiterarty.com Book reviews and blogs by Bridget

I’m the guardian of this place.

Weasel stood at the bar. His nose pointed to a mean tip like the end of a switchblade, and his eyes had a natural narrowness about them like he had a perpetual cigarette jammed in his mouth and the smoke kept smarting at his eyes.

I was out in the desert again, looking for flying saucers and gold dust, leastways that's what I told old Tom when I crossed the mangled piece of barbed wire that serves as a boundary line between his place and everywhere else.

The last time I travelled on this road, I was hitching.