Two or three hundred years ago this was someone’s kitchen. Some holes for grinding grains and pine nuts, with pestle stones or manos, and there’s your cookery. Behind the food preparing area is a rock overhang. I call this the living room. Inside are smoke lined walls. A sandy meadow with ancient fire pits sits in front, and crossing it is a busy trail now used by smugglers.

My name’s Wally Runnels. I write Border Pulp.