Barstow is deserted and dark until he comes to the center of town. Compared to the dazzling mirage of the metal works, the low cottages and brick corner-stores on the approach into Barstow appear as shadows of a former city. There is an odd lantern or porch light, but the driver is overwhelmed by the darkness of the residential neighborhoods on the outskirts.

“It’s deader-ere than at’n the desert.” This observation is made with no amusement.

The pickup is alone for most of the approach into downtown. The steady groan of its engine echoes back off the perfectly even sidewalks. Since this is a main thoroughfare, there are light poles with hanging flower baskets and banners pronouncing various civic achievements and -since it is close to Christmas- a few wreaths thrown in for good measure. Barstow is far from a ghost town, but Saturday nights bring out the loneliness unique to desert towns, big and small.

The clapboard buildings of the main street –called Cayuga Boulevard- grow to three and four stories, with awnings overhanging the sidewalk, and residences above. There are signs of life, with the silhouettes of small groups of people collected on corners or browsing past the closed shops.

Ahead is a square. It breathes with people, gathered around a giant conifer rising from its center. It is hard to make out the various decorations and lights adorning the tree. They are overpowered by the bustle of a marquee and the bright windows of shops and a restaurant. From its top, towering over the surrounding masonry of roofs and coming up short only to a church steeple, shines the star of Bethlehem. It now guides different travelers through a different desert in a different time. Its affect upon the driver is wholly different as well. Instead of brining hope or serving as a heavenly guide, it swamps the driver with a type of sadness he has never experienced before, because it is so overlade with fear. A drop of sweat races down the side of his brow to join the taught wires of his neck.

He had forgotten that it is only a few weeks until Christmas. Of course, he and Paula had planned a little celebration, perhaps a roast turkey with all the trimmings and a bottle of sparkling wine. Christmas had been a more tortured affair when he was growing up. Technically, it could hardly have been considered a proper Christmas, unless the addition of eggnog mix to his father’s –he ceased to be Pa long before- repertoire of homemade alcohol is to be any indication of the holiday season. Paula claimed not to be able to remember hers, even up to the point when she disappeared to Detroit for two years, starting when she was fifteen.