It was the summer of 2011 and Alan Niven sat on the deck at his house in the desert, waiting as a small speck made its way up the road towards the town. Out here he could see for miles. They say that in the desert each man sees what he’s looking for. That was part of the reason he had come. Maybe this was his answer. The speck got closer, became a truck. There were two people in the cab. It made its way off the road and onto the track that led to the house. It drew up outside and a woman got down from the driver’s side.
She took a wheelchair from the back and unfolded it. The other door opened and from it slid a thin figure, skin and bone, crutches under his arms. With some effort, he lowered himself into the chair. For a moment Alan wondered, but then he caught sight of the face, the hawkish nose, the bandana and its shock of hair, and he realised. It was certainly Jack.
