NOTHING COULD BE HEARD over the incessant grumbling of the RV’s insides. Chaos prevailed within, although outside in Arizona’s painted desert, life carried on; no coyote, or mouse was privy of our ascent.

The tarmac burned as our wheels turned down the single wind-cracked road, a divider amongst the sea of sand, like the vein of a sun-burnt arm.

Our destination was a little town known for their fried chicken. But when the little town came into view and the ferocious banging of pots and pans became nothing but notes in the orchestra dominating our last several days, a car approached our rear.

It came close, too close, to simply disregard.

“Pull over!” I exclaimed to my dad, though he had read my mind.

What could this mean?

We slowed the beast and pulled aside, not knowing what to do. A woman approached more frantic than we; the window slowly slid down at her request.

“Yes?” we asked in unison.

“Your awning, it’s flying off your RV!”

“Ah, it is! Thank you, mam,” the words fell from our lips. Fried chicken would have to wait; this, I suppose, would be our painted desert fate.