Xavi approached an old trailer with a flickering open sign. Knocked. Waited.  Banged. Waited. Broke the door with a hard shove and entered, boots crackling across small glass vials. Earl was asleep, sprawled over an old vinyl desk, breath catatonic. Xavi shook him; Earl mumbled and flopped back, a dead puppet, mouth open to the ceiling. Xavi ran his hands over Earl’s pants—no keys. He scanned the cramped interior. Old file cabinets, busted small black-and-white TV, room to the rear hidden behind an amber bead curtain.