The road from Roswell to Albuquerque — not too long, not too winding — seems paved with misfortune.
Highway 285 has long stretches of emptiness, and is dotted with small dusty towns, like Vaughn and Encino, where even “New Menagement” apparently couldn’t save this place.
And, of course, no Starbucks, unlike Albuquerque, where I passed two as soon as I exited, and where I’m now enjoying an iced coffee.
The oppressive humidity of the past week is, I think, behind me. Ace too, as he munches on my left over ice cubes, seems more comfortable.
Tonight, we spend the first of two nights with a complete stranger, who has offered me her couch. Details Saturday.
(To read all of “Dog’s Country,” click here.)