Author: CuongG Mr

Part 1 The Barstow heat is a living, breathing thing. It doesn’t just sit on your shoulders; it wraps its hands around your throat the second you step off your bike. It’s the kind of oppressive, suffocating Mojave Desert bake that smells like melting asphalt, exhaust fumes, and bad decisions. For a guy like me,…

Part 1 The heavy mahogany doors of Room 248 always felt like the gates to a different world, a world I was permitted to visit but never truly allowed to inhabit. It was October 15th, a Tuesday, and the biting wind of the incoming Midwestern winter was already rattling the tall, gothic, stained-glass windows of…