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A person lies face down on train tracks in a vast, desolate desert under a rust-colored sky, with a large sloped concrete wall in the distance.

A person lies face down on train tracks in a vast, desolate desert under a rust-colored sky, with a large sloped concrete wall in the distance.

Arman opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a sky the color of rusted copper. There were no clouds—just a searing, unbroken monotony. He was lying on soft sand that stretched to the horizon. His body felt numb, his mouth parched. With effort, he pushed himself up—and then he saw it: the tracks. Two dull, weathered steel lines cut across the desert, extending to infinity in both directions. But there was no train. The only sound was the steady drone of wind shifting sand. Then he saw the wall. Not a vertical wall, but a vast, sloped surface of concrete that ran parallel to the tracks in the distance. Its incline was gentle enough that it seemed climbable—or at least possible to traverse along its length. As if some colossal, empty freeway had imposed itself upon the wasteland. Ver mais