The sun, a relentless furnace in the Nevada sky, beats down on me with the same unforgiving intensity it has for over forty-five years. Forty-five years. A lifetime, by most measures. For me, it’s been forty-five years bound to this parched earth, this gaping maw of a mine entrance that swallows the light and offers little in return. My name is Dust Railyard, though few remember the Railyard part anymore. Most just call me Dust, and truth be told, that suits me fine. I am the dust of this place, stirred up by the wind, settling back into the cracks and crevices of forgotten time.