The dark peoples with things: for keys, coins, pencils and pens our pockets grieve. No street lights or signs, no liquor stores or bars, only a lighter for a flashlight, and the same-faced trees, similar-armed stones and crooked bushes staring back at me. There is no path in the woods for a boy from the city. I would have set fire to get off this wilderness but Palomar is no El Camino in an empty lot, the plastic dripping from the dash and the paint...