Author's Notice: This chapter is a draft chapter and not the real chapter... I'll edit as soon as possible after I recover from my illness.
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The wind had a bitter, metallic taste as it swept through the valley of rusted towers. Long cables hung like vines, clinking faintly in the cold air. The sun was low, a dull orange half-circle hiding behind a curtain of dust.
A man climbed the slope toward what used to be a relay station. His coat was torn at the shoulder, his boots powdered white from the salt that coated everything in this place. He carried a small pack, a flashlight strapped to his wrist, and a folded sheet of paper that he checked every few minutes as if afraid the lines on it might disappear.
His name was Morgan Hale.
