Among fake palm trees and waitresses in neon aprons, the driver finds himself sunk among the weak and degenerate whom he hates, equal to them in every horrifying way. He thinks of how easily he could rule them, make them bow down, even kill them if he wished; but he doesn’t. His satisfaction will come when he brings about the death of only one man. If only finding him were as easy as a stroll around this horrible casino…

Passing painted-ivy columns and men staggering in dirty, three-dollar suits, the driver breathes in deep the musk of humanity. The shattered dreams that never had a chance, stifled lives, loved ones lost: they are all his now, too, and he can no longer look on at the other gamblers and trashy cocktail girls with feelings of superiority or contempt, but only the humbling burn of camaraderie. He sees himself in them all. He hurts as badly as the alcoholic, barely managing to stand over there, or the lonely widower hunched over a card table. Just like them, the driver has turned to a game of chance in the hope of easing his pain, except it’s not as benign as a throw of the dice or a spin at roulette.

The driver watches the rumpled back of the hitchhiker disappear among a row of slot machines. He is in a hurry for the back, and mumbles something about whoever is waiting there for him, for them. The driver figures it is just part of the hitchhiker’s overexcited state, or else he is off to see his friend: the sixth or seventh man to have founded modern-day Las Vegas, if such a title even makes sense.

The driver is reluctant but finally makes his way to the back wall. The crowd, a few men in soiled blazers and one old lady with long, ratty, gray hair that could easily be mistaken for a man’s, is not hard to get through. A young but unattractive thing with a tray asks him if he would like a drink.

“Sev' n'seven.” The driver barks without looking, but she is gone when he finally turns around. It makes him wonder if she was there to begin with. He thinks of what a horrible sentence it must be for a ghost to have to haunt such a grimy place for the rest of her days; serving drinks to ungrateful customers, no less. She must have done something awful during her time on Earth.

The driver looks around and it strikes him that not one of the gamblers is really there. A man in a hat stands next to a pillar and gazes at the driver. He’s not there. One of the greasy dealers looks up in mid-shuffle and finds the driver hovering over the edge of his table. He is not there. Further down the row, the driver rediscovers the old lady, munching her chops over a dice roll. In addition to her unkempt, straggly hair, she has no teeth. Both her and her teeth are not there. When he finally reaches the back wall through a gauntlet of slot machines, the hitchhiker is there with his back to him, talking to a dark man in a pink suit.