We pull in to the campground nearest the Lucy and Snoopy rocks, and try to find a spot near some sort of tree. She always pitches tents near trees because she says she’d rather be connected to the earth with something other than a metal stake shoved into it, piercing the crust. Dust gets into everything here, and even the nighttime desert heat blasts enough that the inside of a tent just pulses with heat. But this, too, is some sort of home. I’m glad, too, because it’s hot in the poor places; tonight, I’m not going outside.
Note: this was inspired by today’s prompt; the writing turned into a kind of short story. The above is an excerpt from the beginning of that story.
Also: Lucy and Snoopy rocks.