​The Stranger was dusty, hot, and tired; he’d been on the road so long he’d worn holes in his shoes. He sat down to rest before entering the town. The houses on the way into town were old and in need of repair. Broken windows and sagging roofs were the architectural motif. Not a blade of grass could be seen growing in any yard. Not much of anything grew in that town—no flowers, no gardens, and very few trees. The Stranger brushed the dust off his shirt and tried to spit the grit out of his mouth, but he didn’t have enough saliva to do the job. He could not remember his last drink of water. The entire region was in drought and the further he went into the valley, the drier it got. A dust devil kicked up a cloud of yellow dirt and carried it toward him, leaving a new coat of dust on his shirt to replace the one he’d brushed away. He licked his front teeth with a dry tongue—more grit. Wearily, he wiped the dust from his face with the tail of his shirt. He would have loved to see something green but there was no green to be seen, only shades of brown in every direction. Even the houses were brown, a rather greyish brown, stripped of their colors by sandstorms and years in the sun. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen the color green. A sad little patch of algae came to mind. That had been clinging to dry mud in a sunbaked ditch. The whole valley was one big dead zone.

He’d hoped to spend the night in the town, but his first look at it dispelled that thought, and nothing changed his mind as he walked down Main Street. Some of the townsfolk looked half-starved. Others were wandering in a daze. He smiled at those he passed, but no one smiled back. Some even turned their faces away, perhaps ashamed to be seen. Some glared at him fiercely. He knew what they were thinking, “One more person to compete with for our limited resources.” He looked into many faces, hoping to see one who might be receptive to a request for water, but all eyes had the same response, even before the question was asked, “I got nothing for you, stranger, so just keep on walking.”

“This town is in bad shape,” he thought to himself; “but maybe no worse than others,” he concluded on second thought. Looking at the people on the street, it was obvious that many were just passing through, travelers looking for a better place than that from which they had come. He wondered if any would choose to stay in this destitute location; but then, there was no better place on this side of the mountains. This was the last town on the road before the road disappeared into the mountains.

Two middle-aged women came toward him. From their dress, he could tell they were residents and not travelers. He smiled as they approached and said, “Good afternoon, ladies!” in a cheerful tone of voice. He even tipped his hat, but they passed him by as if he didn’t exist. “Well, no problem,” he thought, “I’m used to that.

As he left the commercial part of Main Street, he entered a residential neighborhood and spotted a man working in his yard. Work! Good—a sign of normal life. He found the man scratching at the dry earth with a hand tool, apparently trying to coax some dead plants back to life. The Stranger looked around, expecting to see other plants in the man’s yard. There were none. The digging man looked busy, so The Stranger walked on. Further up the block, he found another man. This one was planting seeds in the parched ground and did not look up as The Stranger approached. Again, he passed by without speaking to the man, walking on until he came to a man clawing at the ground with bleeding fingers.

“Pardon me, sir, but why are you scratching at the ground with your bare hands,” he asked, “when there’s a brand new garden spade right next to you?” The man was surprised to see the spade. “I’ve no idea where that came from,” the man said as he continued scratching at the hard ground. “It don’t make no difference, anyhow,” the man complained, never bothering to look up at The Stranger. “Tools or no tools, nothing grows in these parts.”