I kept telling myself the pay was good as I strapped the canvas bags
onto the muttering, slobbery lipped camel. The sun was coming up over
the dunes, whipping the cold black night back with it’s early pink rays
as I loaded up the post. I kept playing the pitch over and over in my head to keep me going. The pay for a postal run across the dunes from
the Midway Sand to the major cities was high. Hazard pay they called it,
ten thousand cube for three months of work. Young men and women only,
those over thirty summers need not apply. No one I knew up in the high
rocks had ever seen that that much. Not even those blessed to be grey.
