When you're squinting even in sunglasses and the temperature's in the triple digits, when the wind is blowing hot and dry and you're feeling angry for no reason, it's time for something to happen. In the south you'd lie down someplace cool or in the shade, sweat beading on your neck. Languor. Out here, in the desert, you bare your skin and feel flayed. You want to make trouble, kick up some dust, strip the steam out of steamy, expose yourself. Even the crows are silent, leaving you to murder.