Wind still is dusting the sand mold away from a newly disgorged hamlet as this man, Jack, arrives by car with Connie. The little buildings are well-maintained and intact mostly. A great groan grinds in the distance and gasps. The diminishing tail of a piedmont dune clings to the outskirting buildings. Flakes of their flaked paint litter the wind-smoothed slope. Fresh wheel ruts meander back to the main path. Gentle groans are muffled by glass. Blown sand from across the wide open stretch already nicks and engraves paint and plaster. To hunt they wait. Those born again in beds struck at last by sunlight drawing their first breaths before long will venture out on rote dusk walks. The name Jacky repeated thousands of times between them never seems to be the name of a real person. They doze in the car and sweat through their clothes. Connie kicks her foot from across her thigh and rubs tenderly. They watch at dusk shades drawing up, shutters coaxed open, doors hesitantly ajar before shadow-appointed rustling interiors. Their car window cracked siphons in aromatic drafts. A mottled cat skates from a door, bloused cheeks curled and gumming the air she draws with her.