The Old Blog in the Desert

Based on a character of the same name from the short story, The Jaunt, by Stephen King

He reached over and toggled the Nil Switch into the off position, then turned to his desk, where he sat down and lit a cigarette, enjoying the sudden peace and quiet of the station. Lester Michaelson took a long drag from the unfiltered Pall Mall and slowly blew smoke into the air before grinning.

It was Sunday morning, and with no tours listed on the daily manifest, the whole day was his to do with what he wanted. He got up and strolled down the narrow corridor to the back of the facility, his home for 17 years.

“Punishment, they said, for criticizing the new Corporate ownership, as if you could punish a man for telling the truth,” he thought.

The irony was not lost–a piece of hardware that warped time, making travel time more efficient, and here he was, banished to a place where time meant nothing. The memory led to another.

“They called it the thermoprismatic dilator,” Lester thought, pulling a towel from the bathroom shelf. “But it was mine,” he scowled at the memory. He laughed, “Thermoprismatic dilator sounds more like a sex toy than a piece of time-saving equipment.”

He showered quickly, dressed in jeans and a worn tee, and slipped into tennis shoes—no stiff uniform or steel-toed boots today. Outside, his Tesla truck sat waiting. The thing was as quiet as the desert around him.

The air was dry, the sun harsh even this early, but Lester barely noticed. He slid into the driver’s seat, backed out, and pointed the truck south, heading out of Silver City.

Once, Silver City had been something, a town filled with people, with noise and purpose. Now, it was a skeleton, propped up by the sand and heat.

He passed the Tahoe Beer building ruins without a glance, drove the five miles to the end of the route, and turned onto U.S. 50, heading toward Dayton. He liked the rest stop there—the M—where he could grab a six-pack and a breakfast burrito without anyone bothering him too much.

Or so he hoped.

He loved pulling into the large lot and pulling up to the building. It was always busy, and it was hard not to notice one of the only antique vehicles in the area.

That was Lester’s weaknesses, antiques, and being cock-sure of himself, which got him into trouble with people.

“Don’t need anyone telling me what’s right and wrong,” he said before exiting the stainless steel vehicle.

He parked, went in, grabbed his supplies, and was back out within minutes. But as he reached his truck, he saw them: a small crowd of curious onlookers circling his vehicle like vultures over a dead horse.

“Old thing, ain’t it? What is it? How’s it run?”

Lester answered in clipped, irritated syllables. He hated questions.

Questions led to more questions, and sooner or later, someone would pry too deep. Lester did not like Deep.

He impatiently answered them as he hastily sat in the front seat and closed the door. As he pulled onto the highway, he pressed the button for the horn, and the vehicle blasted out an old-fashioned sounding steam train whistle.

Back home, by-passing the one-armed bandit and a mid-twenty-first century pinball game, he went to the back porch, overlooking the crumbling Silver City Post Office building, unfolded a deck chair, setting it next to a small table, and sat down. Lester enjoyed a beer and the burrito before taking a nap.

As the afternoon gave way to evening and that gave way to nighttime, Lester double-checked the schedule for the morning before turning in.

—

Morning came, and he got up, showered, dressed, made a cup of coffee, and walked down the hall to his desk. In fifteen minutes, a group of 35 Japanese tourists would be arriving for a tour of the Comstock. He had time for a smoke.

And such were the days and nights for Lester Michaelson. He enjoyed the quiet that followed him from room to room, giving him a chance to remember. One of his favorite recollections was his first wife, Pam.

“That was a woman,” he thought. “Too bad I was so busy, and she got tired of waiting.”

He remembered the late afternoon when he came home, and she met him at the front door and announced she was heading to her mother’s in Atlanta. That’s where his life took a shit and fell apart, landing him in the Nevada desert.

“Luck was with you,” old man Johnson had smiled, “She took only the jewelry she came with, her clothes, and two favorite cooking pans. She could have taken you for everything.”

Lester hadn’t thought of it that way, but it didn’t help his attitude, as he got mouthy with the Corporation taking the project over from the military. He had spent ten years in the Army learning the ins and outs of the process and had gotten so good that promotions followed and responsibilities increased–until they didn’t.

His forced move to the high desert had come with loneliness. To that end, he started going out to the area casinos in Carson City, Reno, Las Vegas, Boulder, and Henderson and soon hooked up with a pretty cocktail waitress from the Hard Rock in Mesquite.

Angela was a hot number, with no problem running around the station, naked, tits and ass as bare as the day she was born. At first, she was a distraction–then she wasn’t.

He quickly learned she had a champagne taste and out-spent his beer budget. It caused fight after fight, leading her to leave for lengthier periods, going to god only knows where.

Tired of the endless arguing, he refused to give her money, save for a couple of dollars each pay period. She returned to waitressing and then bartending.

“Kept her out of my hair,” he remarked.

And soon, his second marriage was on the rocks and sinking. Angie threatened divorce three, then four times, promising to destroy his life in the process.

He knew she was the sort to live up to her promise. So she had to go, and she did, to part unknown.

—

At first, it was subtle, the sudden movement he would catch at the periphery of his eye. Then, whatever it was would remain long enough for him to turn and look towards it before it vanished.

It left him angry at first. Once, he threw a cupful of coffee at the thing and had to clean up the mess and patch a hole in the wall.

Then, it frightened him into thinking cheese had slipped off his cracker. He stayed awake much of the night, lights on in every room, removing any chance the dark mas had at forming in a dark corner.

The lack of sleep took its toll, and he nearly made a mistake that could have cost the lives of several dozen people arriving on vacation. That’s when the big bosses from the Corporation came to the station.

They found a once-tidy building nearly wrecked. There was trash stacked, creating narrow paths leading to and from the living quarters and down the hallway, to which the entrance was now masked by a filthy drop cloth hung like a curtain.

Lester Michaelson was also wrecked, unshaven, uniform dirty, and wrinkled. It looked like he had not eaten in days, perhaps a week or more, and he wreaked of stale cigarette smoke.

He was placed on medical leave immediately and removed to a hospital in Ojai, California, near corporate headquarters. Technicians came in and poured over his logs, examined the machine, and searched the station, including his living area.

“We can’t find anything wrong with him physically,” a doctor said.

“How about mentally?” came a follow-up question.

“Normal,” was the answer.

“Emotionally?” another question came.

“All we can get out of him is that he can see her at the periphery of his eyes,” the doctor said.

“Her?” someone asked.

“Yes, like a ghost or a spirit, as best we can gather from him,” the doctor returned.

Six months of hospitalization did nothing to resolve what the medical establishment called hallucinations. Still, Lester struggled to sleep, sitting up, arguing with nothing, yelling at the air to stay away.

—

“How are you doing, today, Lester?” the Head of Security asked.

“Same as always,” Lester said.

“We found an anomaly,” the Head of Security said.

Lester answered, “Yeah?”

The Head of Security looked to his left at another security executive, who asked, “Where is your wife?”

“Atlanta, as far as I know,” Lester said.

“Not Pamela, Angela,” the Head of Security said.

Lester smiled and looked down, “Gone.”

“Gone where?” came the question from the other executive.

Lester continued to look down.

“We already know the answer, Lester,” the head stated. “We just need to hear it from you though.”

Lester looked up and smiled, relieved, knowing he would no longer be tormented by his shadow darting in and out of the corner of his vision.

“I put the bitch through the machine, the Nil Switch off,” Lester said.

The two men shifted in their seats, understanding.

“Was she asleep?” one said.

“Did you use Jaunting Gas on her?” the other asked.

“No,” Lester answered coldly, “She was tied up, wide awake, and screaming when I pushed her through, turning the Nil Switch on.”

The two men sat facing Lester for some time, absorbing what they had just heard. Each man knew that to turn on the Nil Switch was to condemn her to eternity in whatever lay beyond the leaded vail that lines the entrance, protecting the operator from time-expansive particulates.

After his confession, Lester stopped talking. Not even his attorneys, the best the Corporation could afford, could get him to speak.

He sat silently in court, staring into a far corner as if he could see something the jury could not, his face wearing a rabid smile. He refused to participate in his trial, even when the doctors testified he was sane.

After nearly three weeks, the jury convicted him, and the judge sentenced him to death. Once back at the prison, this time on death row, where he never spoke again.

Nor did he speak when the warden asked if he had any last words. Instead, Lester Michaelson stared into a corner to his right and smiled.

—

Slowly, the light of the nearly white execution room disappeared. The voices and the sound of the machines, the one monitoring his heartbeat and the other slowly pushing the kill juice into his left arm, vanished, overtaken by silence and darkness.

As he awakened, Lester met a cacophony of noise he only knew from movies and documentaries — a freight train. He could feel what he could only think was a desert wind, hot, dry, and hard.

Then he saw it, all of it, eternity, which included his wife Angie, still alive, hair white, eye bulging and bloodshot, tongue half-chewed and bloodied, reaching for him.

Lester Michaelson welcomed it.

Although September was College Savings Month, Nevada residents are encouraged to save for their children’s education now.

Jordan Lee, CEO of Backer, emphasizes the benefits of 529 plans, a tax-advantaged investment tool that has been helping families save for education expenses for 25 years.

“A 529 plan is a very powerful investment vehicle,” said Lee, noting that Congress has expanded the range of qualified expenses savings can cover.

While 529 plans traditionally focused on college and graduate school expenses, they offer more flexibility.

“You can pay for a computer, and now it covers K-12 private school tuition, if that’s a priority. Recently, apprenticeship programs were added as a qualified expense, which is great for adults considering retraining or a career transition,” Lee explained.

One significant advantage for Nevada residents is the absence of capital gains tax on the growth of a 529 plan. Lee also pointed out the state’s unique program, the Silver State Matching Grant, which offers Nevada residents an additional financial incentive.

“With the Silver State Matching Grant, you can get up to $300 per year for five years, for a maximum of $1,500 per beneficiary, if you set up a 529 plan with a future path,” Lee added.

A new feature introduced this year allows unused 529 funds to be converted into a Roth IRA, making it a flexible tool even if the beneficiary doesn’t pursue higher education.

“If you end up with leftover 529 assets, you can kickstart a Roth IRA for your child, offering them a meaningful head start on retirement savings,” said Lee.

He also highlighted that 529 plans will continue evolving to support various educational and non-traditional paths.

In addition to the Silver State Matching Grant, Nevada residents can explore other savings programs, like the Nevada Putnam Scholarship and the USAA Program, further expanding their options for securing their children’s future.

The corner of C and Taylor Streets was no stranger to the bustling footfalls of men with empty pockets but grand ideas. Here, beneath the gilded lamp that barely lit the nighttime street that Sam Jenkins paced, hands deep in his overcoat, the weight of failure a heavier burden than the crisp autumn chill.

Sam was not a poor man—at least, not by birthright. He had inherited the Jenkins Emporium, a sprawling store of fine goods and even finer debts, from his father, one who believed in the power of credit over cash.

Sam, a believer in quite the opposite, now stood teetering on the precipice of bankruptcy. That night, with bankruptcy papers folded neatly in his inner coat pocket, his luck—or misfortune—took a curious turn.

“I have a proposition for you,” came a voice, smooth as molasses, from the shadows.

Sam turned to find a man of middling height with eyes that twinkled like they knew the punchline to a joke Sam had not yet heard. The stranger was impeccably dressed, save for a pair of worn-out shoes that clashed with his otherwise sharp attire.

“A proposition?” Sam echoed, uncertain whether to step back or forward.

“Yes, indeed,” the man said. “You see, I am a collector of opportunities,” producing a card from the inside of his jacket with a flourish. The card read: Mr. Barrow—Broker of Fortunes.

Sam glanced from the card to the man, then back again.

“I am afraid my fortune has been brokered to the last penny,” he said.

“Precisely why I am here,” said Barrow, smiling. “You need a bargain, and I need a gentleman with just the right disposition.”

Sam’s curiosity, though cautious, outweighed his sense of dread, “Go on.”

“I offer you a trade,” Barrow said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I will erase your debts, every last one of them. In return, you must agree to give me whatever you find in your pocket tomorrow at noon.”

Sam blinked, “That’s it?”

“That is it,” Barrow confirmed, “A simple transaction. Surely, the contents of a pocket are worth less than a mountain of debt?”

Sam felt a rush of hope so unfamiliar that he almost stumbled over it. After all, what harm could come from such a trivial exchange?

“I accept,” Sam said, shaking Barrow’s hand with a firmness he had not had in months.

Come morning, Sam awoke with a lightness he had not known since the emporium had begun its slow descent into ruin. He patted his pocket instinctively—nothing there but the familiar feel of his handkerchief.

He laughed at himself for worrying. Noon was still hours away, and it seemed his troubles had melted with the sunrise.

At precisely eleven o’clock, Sam decided to stroll to the bank to confirm the state of his accounts. To his astonishment, the debts had vanished like smoke on a windy day, and the emporium was his again, free and clear.

He was a man, reborn, and with only one hour left until the fateful transaction, he walked with the confidence of a man who had bested fortune itself.

At the stroke of noon, Barrow appeared, his worn shoes tapping lightly on the pavement.

“Well, Sam Jenkins,” he said, tipping his hat. “Shall we see what is in your pocket?”

Sam chuckled as he reached into his coat, fingers brushing only the smooth fabric of his empty pocket. But then, his heart stuttered as his hand found something unfamiliar.

Slowly, he drew it out—a slip of paper–folded once and yellowed with age.

Barrow grinned a Cheshire Cat smile, “Ah, yes. What have we here?”

Sam unfolded the paper, his blood running cold as he recognized the scrawl of his father’s handwriting. It was a contract declaring that, in the event of the Jenkins family’s financial ruin, the eldest son would inherit the emporium and its most secret debt–one owed not to banks but to the collector of opportunities.

Barrow’s eyes twinkled with amusement, “You see, Sam, I collect what is owed. And your father, bless his soul, agreed to quite the bargain long ago.”

Sam’s throat tightened, “But what does it mean?”

“It means, dear Sam, that I now collect what was promised–your brightest opportunity.”

Barrow tipped his hat once more, turned on his heel, and vanished into the crowd, leaving Sam standing alone, the weight of his inheritance suddenly far heavier than before. So, Sam Jenkins found that the most valuable thing in his pocket was not gold nor silver but something far more elusive—the promise of hope, now traded away for a fleeting relief.

As O. Henry might have said, “There are no greater debts than the one you do not see coming.”

When I got to Virginia City
I was looking for another side of life
My feet so badly calloused I could walk
The sharpened edge of a bloodied knife

All I do is kill time,
While time is killing me
We do it to one another
We do it because it is free

Gotta be twenty-one to buy me a drink
But barely eighteen, okay to take a life
My mind so twisted I could barely think
The sharpened edge of a bloodied knife

All I do is kill time.
While time is killing me
We do it to one another
We do it because it is free

The sharpened edge of a bloodied knife
The sharpened edge of a bloodied knife

Nevada Copper Corp. has provided an update regarding its ongoing sale process and bankruptcy proceedings.

The company has entered into an asset purchase agreement (APA) with Southwest Critical Minerals LLC, an affiliate of Kinterra Capital Corp, after filing Chapter 11 bankruptcy in June.

Under the agreement, Southwest Critical Minerals will acquire substantially all of Nevada Copper’s assets for $128 million in cash, along with assuming some contracts and liabilities. The APA was executed as a stalking horse bid following Section 363 of the U.S. Bankruptcy Code after Nevada Copper’s voluntary bankruptcy filing.

The deadline for other binding offers to purchase the company’s assets expired on Friday, September 6. Although multiple bidders conducted due diligence, no alternative qualified bids were submitted, and after deliberation, Nevada Copper’s board of directors designated Southwest Critical Minerals as the successful bidder.

Final approval of the transaction is to be heard later this month by both the U.S. Bankruptcy Court in Nevada and the Superior Court of Justice in Ontario. The deal should close in October 2024, subject to customary closing conditions, court approvals, and satisfactory arrangements regarding the assumption of various contracts.

The proceeds from the sale will be distributed to creditors as part of Nevada Copper’s bankruptcy process, though there is no guarantee that the transaction will close as planned.

Maya Harris, sister of Vice President Kamala Harris, stressed the influence of Filipino American voters in Nevada during a phone banking event organized by SEIU Local 1107 in Las Vegas.

On September 28, Harris pointed out that the 2020 election win in Nevada came with a slim margin of just 35,000 votes, while the state is home to approximately 80,000 Filipino American voters. With only days remaining until the election, she encouraged volunteers to continue their work to ensure every vote gets counted.

Harris emphasized the importance of grassroots mobilization, especially within the Filipino American community.

“You all are key messengers for this,” she said, acknowledging the commitment of volunteers who have consistently shown up to rally voters. She added, “This is how we’re going to win—by showing up, putting in the work, and doing it together.”

Sharing personal reflections, Harris spoke about her sister’s journey, noting the values they grew up with, including the teachings of their mother, who emphasized the commonalities shared by all people. Harris also spoke of her sister’s vision for a more inclusive democracy, where equal opportunity is a priority for everyone, regardless of background.

The phone banking event coincided with the beginning of Filipino American History Month.

In the late summer of 2024, JoJo Leggs journeyed to the Black Rock Playa, armed with her camera, her dreams, and an unshakable sense that this year would be different.

Since childhood, she envisioned herself behind the lens, capturing the perfect shot propelling her into the spotlight. Vibrant and free-spirited, the chaos of Burning Man felt like the ideal setting for that one photograph—the image that would define her career and, perhaps, her life.

Over the week, Leggs took thousands of photos, her professional camera humming as she moved among the kaleidoscope of people and structures. She had captured everything from intricate art installations to wild-eyed revelers covered in the white powdered dust.

Her cell phone, too, was filled with spontaneous snapshots and short videos. By the time the event was winding down, she had amassed over twelve hundred images.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

On the last day, while packing her gear, Leggs fumbled with her cell phone. It slipped through her fingers and disappeared into the unforgiving and wind-whipped sand.

Hours of frantic searching led nowhere, and her heart sank. Without that phone, so much of her work—candid moments, the spur-of-the-moment magic—was gone.

The Black Rock Playa was now a barren stretch of desert, long removed from the days of Burning Man. The gathering had drawn thousands to its parched, cracked dirt for decades, but that was in the distant past.

By 2186, the Playa was an archaeological treasure trove, rich with remnants from a wild and eccentric past.

Bern McFadden and Rachelle Umber, researchers from the University of Nevada, Reno, had spent years digging through the layers of desert sediment, hoping to uncover artifacts from this curious slice of human history. Their latest excavation had proven fruitful: scattered among the debris were pieces of jewelry, old coins dating as far back as 1963, and—most puzzling—a small rectangular device encased in dust.

“A communication device,” Bern remarked as he brushed the sand from the object. “Late twentieth, early twenty-first century. Fascinating.”

The phone was carefully cataloged and stored alongside the other finds, its secrets still locked away. Though the researchers were unaware of its significance, the discovery would soon spark a chain of events reviving a long-forgotten name.

Marsha Redway, a senior fellow in technological archaeology, sat hunched over her workstation, peering through magnifiers at the ancient cellphone. Her task was daunting—extracting data from a device over a century old—but she relished the challenge.

After countless hours of tinkering, slowly but surely, she powered it up. A name appeared: JoJo Leggs.

Intrigued, Marsha delved deeper, finding a treasure trove of data. With the help of a pre-graduate assistant tasked with researching the name, she uncovered the story of a forgotten artist.

Once an aspiring photographer, Leggs had left behind a digital archive: photographs, messages, contacts, and journal entries chronicling her many experiences. Now, there was the SIM card.

Marsha called in Adam Randalson, a data-recovery expert, to help unlock its mysteries. Together, they retrieved a stunning collection of images untouched by time. The photographs told a vivid story of humanity at its most uninhibited, capturing moments that, while once fleeting, now became windows into a lost world.

Once buried for over a century, it shined brightly under the glare of modern attention, with photographs brimming with life and artistic vision becoming the subject of documentaries and articles that spanned Earth and beyond. Her work appeared in publications as far away as Ancient Explorer, based in New Vee Cee City, Mars.

Ironically, the fame Leggs had once sought in her lifetime came long after her death through a twist of fate that no one could have foreseen. Her images—discovered by accident, unlocked through perseverance—touched a new generation in a world vastly different.

The world marveled at her art, story, and the strange way time had granted her the recognition she had always dreamed of. And so, long after she had disappeared into obscurity, the name JoJo Leggs became celebrated across the two worlds.

Her photographs, once lost, had finally found their way into the light, and she to fame.

Comstock Inc., via its subsidiary Comstock Metals Corporation, has announced new revenue streams from contracts with two commercial companies for the decommissioning and disposal of end-of-life solar panels.

“We recognized our first in-take revenues from the receipt and processing of end-of-life solar panels and our first off-take revenues from reprocessed and shipped materials, such as recycled aluminum,” said Corrado De Gasperis, Executive Chairman and CEO of Comstock Inc. “Our team is now engaged with nationally recognized customers to decommission, transport, and process solar panels from their facilities.”

Operating from a commercial demonstration facility in Silver Springs, Comstock Metals recently expanded its services in response to customer demand. In addition to recycling, the company now offers de-installation, transportation, and storage of solar panels, allowing for a more comprehensive service package.

The expansion is supported by the company’s newly permitted capacity to store large volumes of solar panels, positioning Comstock Metals as a leader in reducing landfilled electronic waste while recovering valuable materials.

Dr. Fortunato Villamagna, President of Comstock Metals, highlighted the rapid growth of these new services.

“We quickly adapted to customer requests and have already completed several deinstallations, with more projects under negotiation.” Villamagna said.

Comstock Metals has received materials from several new, nationally recognized customers, coordinating the decommissioning of solar panels from various facilities and transporting them to Silver Springs for recycling.

“We are now expanding decommissioning services with additional, large-scale customers for long-term, revenue-generating supply commitments,” Villamagna added.

As the company expands its market presence, it is building long-term agreements and increasing its range of services to ensure that materials stay out of landfills and ecosystems.

Now, friends, plug your ears for a great clattering rolled into Virginia City–Street Vibrations Fall Rally—a thunderous cacophony of engines and music that could stir the bones of the long-buried.

Assuredly, it is a family affair suited for the innocent eyes of children and the weary gazes of the elder.

“We produce to the Disney standard,” a Ringmaster warned like that might soothe the ears blasted by roaring Harleys.

But there, you would not find princesses—unless they wore leather and came riding chrome horses through the dust. And while Disney dabbles in politics, we had our thrills: the FMX Rampage stunt show, where daredevils soared like caffeinated squirrels, pulling off acrobatics that would have made a drunken mule blush. But fear not, for they were wisely caged behind fences, lest some poor soul on the boardwalk become a participant in that aerial ballet and unwilling.

And oh, the boardwalk! Picture it, where the very air trembled with adventure and mischief.

Ladies—God bless ’em all—flashing their bosoms for glittering beads as if Mardi Gras had rolled into town on two wheels. A finer spectacle you would be hard-pressed to find, as even the stiffest old-timer cracked a grin at the joyous abandon.

Caught in the spirit myself, I had wondered if the pursuit of such trinkets did not have its charm after all. It had been a strange thing, indeed, that a bit of foolishness had brought so much merriment to a town that had seen its share of rough-and-tumble days.

But of course, when you invited a flood of bikes—some 35,000 of them, with 52,000 revelers tagging along—it would be best to keep safety at the top of the mind. Our vigilant lawmen and women were out, warning the four-wheeled folk to give those riders their space, for motorcycles are as elusive as a ghost at a séance. They had said to keep four to five seconds of distance–enough to prevent bones from knitting together in unfortunate ways.

Ah, and speed—those crafty bikers dart through traffic like needles through cloth, slicing lanes in a way that makes a seamstress proud. But let me tell you, friends, lane-splitting has been as illegal in Nevada as bringing a cat to a dog fight. Our deputies have not taken kindly to those who thought they could bend the rules like a cowboy shaping a new hat.

In the middle of the metallic carnival, a fellow rode in from the Sandwich Islands—now known as Hawaii, a secret of hermetic he refused to divulge.

“It’s a sight to see,” he had said, beaming like a lad with a fistful of candy. “With all these booths, rides, and the mountains in the background, this is the heart of biking.”

And who could argue? Virginia City has become the Mecca for those on two wheels.

With live shows, stunts, poker runs, and rides through landscapes that would have taken your breath away if the dust had not done it first, the rally had everything a soul could have asked for. Throw in some shopping, food, and drink, and you had a festival that could have made a commoner feel like a king.

As Virginia City shakes with the joyous noise of engines and laughter, I thought of when the town clamor was constant—rock-crushing machines hammering from dawn till dusk between 1860 and 1940. What had been a few days of raucous revelry compared to a lifetime of that?

Let the engines roar, I have said, for we embraced the noise as heartily as the following silence in this place.

Nevada is poised to become the 18th state to use Medicaid funds to provide broader access to abortion for lower-income women following a court ruling that became official last week.

The ruling determined that denying Medicaid coverage for abortions violated the equal rights protections adopted by Nevada voters in 2022, an act that is neither state nor federal law. The state government did not appeal the decision within 30 days of the release of the written opinion, paving the way for expanded access.

The timeline for when Medicaid coverage for abortion services will begin remains uncertain, but the presiding judge mandated that it should be no later than early November. This expansion marks a significant step for reproductive rights in Nevada, especially in the wake of the U.S. Supreme Court’s 2022 decision to overturn Roe v. Wade.

“Nevadans who have Medicaid as their health insurance will no longer need to fear that they will be forced to carry a pregnancy against their will,” said Rebecca Chan, a lawyer with the ACLU Reproductive Freedom Project, which played a role in the lawsuit.

The case is part of a broader legal and political battle over abortion access that has unfolded across the country since the Supreme Court’s decision.

Since the repeal of Roe v. Wade, many Republican-led states have implemented stricter abortion bans, including 14 states that bar abortion at all stages of pregnancy, with few exceptions. In contrast, Democratic-led states have moved to safeguard access to reproductive healthcare, including a Minnesota bill signed into law last year by the state Governor and Democratic vice-presidential candidate Tim Walz that removed a requirement to try to save the life of a baby born alive after an attempted abortion.

Nevada, with its Republican governor and Democratic-controlled legislature, has taken steps to protect abortion access. In November, voters will have the opportunity to further solidify these protections by voting on a constitutional amendment to enshrine the right to abortion. If approved, a second vote will take place in 2026.

A factor in abortion access is whether Medicaid covers the procedure. Federal law, established in 1977, prohibits the use of federal funds for abortion except in cases of rape, incest, or when the life of the pregnant person is in danger.

However, states have the discretion to use their own Medicaid funds to cover abortion under broader circumstances. Nevada’s recent court ruling places it among 17 other states that provide Medicaid funding for abortion without federal restrictions.

According to the Guttmacher Institute, which supports abortion rights, nine states provide abortion coverage under court orders, while eight do so voluntarily. As a result of Nevada’s decision, a significant portion of the state’s population—disproportionately low-income, Native American, and Black women—will soon have greater access to abortion through Medicaid.