Blog

Millions Vanish, and Powers That Be Are Scare’t

Now I reckon there ain’t a soul west of the Rockies who hasn’t heard tell of them new-fangled fiber wires–meant to zip words and pictures through the air like greased lightning, or so they say. But in the fine town of Lovelock–where tumbleweeds roll straighter than the books kept by some contractors–a highfalutin broadband project got sold to the public like a ticket to the future, and now folks are wonderin’ where the money went, along with their promised internet.

Interim U.S. Attorney Sigal Chattah, a woman who seems to believe laws ain’t just for the little folks, pulled back the curtain Friday and announced a federal probe into a fiber optic boondoggle that’s gone belly-up with a mighty splash. It seems Uncle Sam and the Nevada Department of Transportation gave out wheelbarrows full of dollars–$27 million from the feds and $9 million from the state–to string lines and light up the desert with sweet connectivity. Instead, they got lawsuits, broken promises, and the sort of bookkeeping that’d make a gambler blush.

“This month,” Miss Chattah declared, with all the calm of a gunslinger at a church social, “the United States Attorney’s Office was brought a case and has now opened an investigation into allegations that misappropriation may have occurred…”

I’ll stop her there–because anyone with a dictionary knows what that means–somebody ran off with the money.

Uprise Fiber was supposed to bring high-speed salvation to Lovelock. But not long after the first shovel hit the dirt–if it did at all–bank records showed its head honcho, one Stephen Kromer, emptied the coffers like a fox in a henhouse. His family, quick as a sneeze, distanced themselves faster than a Baptist from a gambling den. The USDA, not known for hasty decisions unless slaughtering chickens–hauled out the audit book in March of 2025 and discovered Uprise’s paperwork had more holes than a miner’s sock.

Matching funds? Nope. Construction costs? Inflated like a carnival balloon. Equipment? Let’s say the receipts looked more like wish lists to Santa than anything else.

But here’s the kicker–the Nevada state legislature, in its infinite wisdom–and apparent fear of mirrors–decided there’s no need to investigate themselves. Senator Melanie Scheible, chairwoman of not-rocking-the-boat, stated they’d let the feds handle it–thank you kindly.

Ain’t that just convenient?

Now, you might ask yourself–why would anyone have a bone to pick with Chattah for doing her job? I’ll tell you–because the last thing the powerful want is a woman who don’t scare easy, sniffin’ around their gold-plated follies. She’s rattlin’ the cages of comfortable people in high places, and that sort of thing don’t make you many friends in Carson City or D.C.

So next time you hear someone high up bad-mouthin’ Sigal Chattah, remember it might not be ‘cause she’s wrong–it might be ‘cause she’s right. And Lord, help the scoundrel who bets she’ll back down.

In the meantime, the good people of Lovelock are left with no broadband, no answers, and no sign of their missing millions–just the desert wind and a promise broken wide open.

I am young, sixty-something, who keeps count?—yet I have seen the horrors of the green frontier. We mow, not yet broken, because the grass grows relentlessly, like an enemy that knows no truce.

The backyard is my trench, my battlefield, and I am its weary soldier, armed with a push mower that rattles like a dying beast. The sun beats down as I survey the line—ankle-high grass, dandelions standing like sentries, a patch of clover buzzing with bees I dare not provoke.

My comrades are few–the mower, its blade dulled from last summer’s campaign; a rake, bent and sullen; and the neighbor’s dog, barking from beyond the fence, a constant reminder of the world beyond my war.

“Quiet, Fritz,” I mutter, though his name might be Buddy, like my dog.

It matters not. Fritz is the artillery of this quiet afternoon.

We learned to mow in youth, taught by fathers or necessity, gripping handles slick with sweat, pushing forward through the thickets of suburbia. Now I advance, step by step, the mower coughing as it chews through the enemy lines.

A stick jams the blade—a landmine of nature—and I kneel, cursing, prying it free with hands stained green. The grass falls, silent, in clumps, like soldiers cut down without a sound. I feel no triumph, only the ache in my shoulders, the weight of a Saturday lost to duty.

Once, we dreamed of glory—clean lines, a lawn to rival the golf courses of legend. We spoke over beers, my friend Dave and I–plotting strategies against crabgrass and molehills. But Dave is gone now—moved to an apartment with no yard—and I am alone, save for the memory of his laughter when I tripped over the hose. The hose lies coiled now, a serpent waiting to strike, and I eye it warily as I push on.

The middle of the yard is the worst, a no-man’s-land of uneven earth and hidden rocks. The mower bucks, I stumble, and a stone flies—ping!—against the shed. I pause, breathless, listening.

All is quiet in the backyard, save for Fritz’s distant yaps and the hum of a sprinkler two houses down. The silence is a lie. Beneath it, the grass plots its return, roots deep as despair. I know this, as all mowers do–we win today, but tomorrow, the war resumes.

At last, the final strip falls. I stand, victorious yet hollow, the mower silent beside me. The lawn is uneven and patchy—a scarred field—but it is mine.

I drag the clippings to the bin, my medals of honor, and collapse into a chair with a cold drink, the armistice of dusk settling in. Fritz whines once more, a farewell shot, and I nod to him across the fence.

“Until next time,” I whisper.

For in the backyard, as in all wars, peace is but a pause.

Without aiming to startle nobody, I recently found myself ensnared in a war of words with Mrs. Leggs, a woman-friend of stout East Coast conviction and a voice that could lullaby a White Shark to sleep. It all started innocently enough—she asked me who I reckoned might win the ongoing war, betwixt Ukraine and Russia.

Being a man of peace and not particularly fond of having frying pans flung at my head—whether metaphorical or cast iron—I replied, “Ma’am, I do not rightly know, other than if the U.S. sets up shop in Ukraine, it a certainty that China will fall in with Russia, and only because of their shared love of Communism.”

I figured that was a safe harbor in a storm of opinions. Alas, I was mistaken.

She cocked her head like a chicken hearing thunder and declared that we were fools if we didn’t understand the war was one head of a many-headed beast–and the real trouble was the nature of the governments behind the guns. Russia and China, she said with great thunder and finality, were operating under totalitarian hybrids, something like a bank run by prison wardens.

Now, I like to keep things simple—it makes the world easier to chew on—so I said, “Well, I call both of‘em Communist and be done with it.”

That was a mistake on par with asking a mule to dance the Lindy. She flared up like a prairie fire, arms flailing and facts flying.

“Communist?” she said as if I’d insulted her grandmother’s soup. “Neither one’s been Communist since Disco died.”

And she commenced lecturing me like I was a schoolboy caught cheating on a geography test, which I suppose I was, in a way. Well, I’m no stranger to being wrong–I’ve been married a long time, after all–so I figured I’d do some digging.

By the time I emerged from the digital mines of the internet, I had dirt under my nails and a head full of confusion. It turns out Mrs. Leggs was neither entirely right nor entirely wrong.

But me? I was gloriously, absolutely, and undeniably mistaken.

After rummaging through various reputable sources and a few that smelled of basement mildew and conspiracy, I discovered that China is a “Democratic Dictatorship,” which sounds like a jailhouse where the inmates get to vote on what flavor of porridge they eat. Russia, on the other hand, is an “Authoritarian Republic,” which means they hold elections in the same spirit a magician pulls rabbits out of hats—prearranged and for show.

And here at home, in these United States, we’re no longer a “Constitutional Republic,” but a “Democratic Republic,” which roughly translates to–we all get a vote, provided we don’t mind the fact that our choices have already been picked out for us by men and women in expensive suits and no sense of shame.

Don’t believe me? Look at what they keep doing to the Second Amendment.

After digesting all this, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the wall, which seemed just as puzzled. I thought about those sacred old words, “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness,” and I tell you true–happiness now feels more like a joke told by a tax collector with a straight face.

We’ve traded it in for something colder, meaner—something called helplessness. It’s the sensation of shouting into a canyon and only hearing someone else’s opinion echo back at you.

It’s voting for a person who promises change–and getting change back in the way of more taxes. It’s watching your country argue over which way the ship is sinking instead of plugging the hole.

Still, I reckon Mrs. Leggs meant well. And maybe I did, too.

But next time someone asks me about world affairs, I’ll tell them I’ve taken a vow of silence—or that I only speak in riddles and limericks as it might save me from learning too much truth all at once.

By the looks of it, the great State of Nevada is goin’ to have herself an Easter fit for a king, a queen, and at least three well-fed rabbits. According to the keepers of coin over at the Retail Association of Nevada (RAN), folks will part with a staggering $382.3 million this season—proof that resurrection is big business, even if it ain’t saving a single soul.

The National Retail Federation—bless their spreadsheets—says each reveler will toss about $189 at the altar of Easter essentials. That’s the second-highest per-person Easter-spendin’ ever recorded, trailing only the year folks mistook Easter for Christmas with better weather.

Yet for all that spendin’, not a whisper of redemption has been heard among the jellybeans.

“Retailers aren’t the only ones feelin’ the seasonal buzz—the Easter Bunny is lookin’ bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” chirped Bryan Wachter, RAN’s Senior Vice President and part-time poet. “It’s clear consumers are embracin’ this year’s holiday with energy and enthusiasm.”

And presumably with wallets swung wide like barn doors in a windstorm.

With more than two million Nevadans joinin’ in, food is wearin’ the crown, with nearly $60 per person goin’ toward Easter feasts. That adds up to a belly-buster of a whoppin’ $120.4 million. Candy’s hangin’ in there like a good-humored toothache, with nine outta ten celebrants droppin’ a sweet $54.2 million into the confectionary abyss.

Other favored expenditures include gifts–65 percent, likely stuffed animals with judgmental eyes–decorations at 51 percent, clothing pulling up 49 percent, with pastels being the color of salvation–flowers growing at 43 percent, preferably ones that don’t perish before the Visa bill arrives, and greeting cards–also 43 percent, mostly read once and kept forever out of guilt.

As for how folks aim to mark the occasion, 58 percent say they’ll cook up a holiday meal—bless their deviled eggs. Another 55 percent intend to darken the doorstep of friends and kin, while 45 percent will give church another try, if only for the ham afterward. Over half of families with young ’uns are fixin’ to hide plastic eggs in the backyard—modern-day treasure hunts where the prize is sugar and ants.

When shopping, discount stores lead the parade at 55 percent, followed by department stores at 44 percent, the wild frontier of online streaming in at 36 percent, and, bless their hearts, local small businesses cementin’ 26 percent.

So there you have it—Easter in Nevada, where rabbits are holy, baskets are bountiful, and salvation may be scarce, but you can sure buy a perfected facsimile of it, wrapped in cellophane and marked down for the following day.

In the grand circus tent of Nevada politics, where the clowns wear neckties, and the carnival barkers speak a procedural language, four Republican senators drew a firm line—not in the sand, but in the cement mix of legislative integrity—by voting against Senate Bill 451, a measure to continue funding Las Vegas police through an existing property tax stream.

Don’t let the headlines fool you—these folks ain’t shaking their fists at the badge. They were raising an eyebrow at the fine print.

The bill, cooked up by Senate Majority Leader Nicole Cannizzaro—a Democrat out of Las Vegas, naturally—promises to keep boots on the ground—800 of them, to be exact. That’s 400 officers, give or take a baton or two.

Cannizzaro warned with all the dramatic flair of a thundercloud that if this tax extension didn’t pass, the city might be left defenseless in the face of armed robbery, sexual assault, and Lord knows what else. But hold on a minute–Republicans weren’t objecting to keeping the town safe. They were objecting to the way this sausage’s gettin’ made.

Senator Robin Titus of Wellington—Minority Leader and, it seems, guardian of voter intent—stood on the floor and said the people voted on this tax back in 1996, and should they want to keep it rolling, then the people should have another say.

“Shall impose a tax,” the bill reads, and to Senator Titus, that smelled a lot like the state elbowing past local authority.

If a law officer’s job is on the line, that’s serious business. But so is keeping a campaign promise, especially when it’s the governor’s neck in the political noose. Governor Joe Lombardo—who once wore a badge and pledged not to raise taxes—might get caught betwixt and between.

Sign the bill, betray the tax-hating faithful.

Veto it, officers get pink slips, and folks might accuse him of gutting the force he once led. Talk about a steel-toothed trap.

Democrats, of course, are grinning like cats in a creamery. All of them voted “aye” on SB451, and you can bet they’ll remind voters they’re the ones who backed the blue—especially if Cannizzaro’s eyes are on the attorney general’s office. It’s a tidy little purposeful narrative they’re weaving—Republicans voted against police—Democrats saved the day.

But politics, like poker, ain’t played with just the cards on the table. You have to watch the hands.

Meanwhile, in the dim-lit backrooms of the Capitol, where deals get made over weak coffee and strong ambitions—another drama folds. NV Energy, that giant humming beast of the electric grid, is busy whispering about wildfire liability. They ain’t wantin’ to get left holding the match if a power line goes rogue and torches a hillside.

No official word yet—they’re tighter-lipped than a banker in a gold rush–but they’re angling to follow Utah’s lead by setting up a fund paid for by ratepayers–that’s you and me, dear reader—just in case their equipment sparks a blaze.

Call it “self-insurance,” though the self in question is the customer, not the company.

It’s all quite preliminary, of course, like sourdough rising. But if NV Energy gets its way, it might walk away from future infernos without a singed cuff. Berkshire Hathaway—the folks who own NV Energy—have been pushing this model across the West like a traveling salesman with a miracle tonic.

Now, some may call this savvy business. Others might call it wriggling out of responsibility. But one thing’s known—if a wildfire ever comes roaring through your backyard, don’t expect the electric company to bring marshmallows and apologies. They’re more likely to hand you the bill.

So as the Legislature heads toward its finale with all the grace of a one-legged mule in a rainstorm, we see the old playbook at work—Democrats securing their headlines by setting up Republicans, who’re standing their ground, and the corporations whispering deals in the hallway.

And the voters? They’ll have the final say, assuming someone remembers to ask them.

Written by a Gentle Observer with a Pen, a Chair, and a Good Deal of Curiosity

The Nevada Legislature’s 2025 session is like a poker game in a saloon where every man has a bluff and every lady–an Ace in her garter. In the democratic dance hall of Carson City, lawmakers are swapping their spurs for pens as they attempt to rope in a wild herd of issues—from sneaky rental fees to black-market marijuana, prescription drug profiteering, and even the prospect of a state-run lottery–which stumbled out the door before the band could strike a chord.

Take Assembly Bill 121, for instance. Introduced by Assemblymember Venicia Considine, a Democrat out of Las Vegas, it’s aimed at pulling the curtain on what she calls “predatory” rental practices. It seems too many Nevadans sign leases under the impression they’re renting a room and end up financing a spaceship, complete with “smart” thermostats and Wi-Fi they didn’t ask for.

She wants every cost laid out plain as day–before tenants get hoodwinked into handing over deposits for conveniences they can’t decline. The landlords ain’t keen on red tape–though they say they admire “transparency,” so long as it don’t come with an invoice attached.

Then there’s Assembly Bill 203, which aims to hogtie the illegal cannabis trade, especially the shady sidewalk sellers working like old-time snake oil men. Lawmakers say the black market’s sucking $242 million out of legitimate coffers–money meant for education and public safety.

Tourists lured in by cheap thrills may not realize their “bargain buds” are sometimes spiced up with more than THC. The new bill hands more power to the Department of Public Safety and nudges regulators to find clever ways to draw users into the legal fold. One such idea—to deliver cannabis directly to Strip hotels—ran afoul of federal banking laws and the ever-watchful eye of Nevada’s gaming giants, who’d rather avoid running afoul of Uncle Sam.

Speaking of gaming giants, the idea of a state lottery, Assembly Joint Resolution 5, quietly keeled over in the hallway, done in by missed deadlines and powerful casino interests. Nevada remains one of only five states without a lottery–and judging by the influence of the Resort Association, it’ll likely stay that way till slot machines grow legs and start buying scratchers themselves.

Meanwhile, the healthcare industry is pouring money into lawmakers’ campaigns faster than whiskey into a miner. Over $1.7 million in contributions have flooded into campaign coffers–most of it from hospitals, insurers, and Big Pharma.

The motive? A seat at the table while legislation brews to cap drug prices, regulate pharmacy go-betweens, and split the state’s Department of Health and Human Services in two like a poorly cooked roast.

Critics call these bills everything from misguided to downright ruinous. Supporters, on the other hand, say it’s high time someone stood up to the pill profiteers.

As these dramas unfold, it’s clear Nevada’s lawmakers aren’t just passing bills—they’re wrestling leviathans, each more slippery than the last. Renters want fairness, tourists need safety, patients desire care, and corporations demand profit. Somewhere in the middle lies the truth—or at least a compromise wrapped in red tape and signed in triplicate.

In the Silver State, progress never rides in on a white horse. It usually arrives dusty, delayed, and clinging to the back of a tired mule.

While I ain’t one to speak ill of a man doing his job—when a fella like Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford sets up a website to collect grumblings and bellyaches over Social Security and then has the gall to call it a crusade for commoners, well, I reckon we’ve wandered clean off the trail of common sense and into the thornbushes of political grandstanding.

Puffed up like a turkey on Thanksgiving Eve, Mr. Ford launched a shiny new webpage so Nevadans could report any hiccups or hangnails they experienced with their Social Security checks. It ain’t a fix-it line, nor is it meant to smooth the road for folks needing their funds.

No, sir—it’s more like a suggestion box nailed to a lawsuit waiting to happen as Ford’s sayin’ it’ll get used in “future litigation,” which sounds like he’s fixin’ to sue the federal government before finding out if there’s anything worth suing over.

But Ford didn’t stop there. He rolled up his sleeves, squared his jaw, and declared, “I will not allow the Trump administration to destroy a safety net…”

Well, bless his heart. Ain’t it like a politician to go hollerin’ ‘fire’ when someone lights a match to read the fine print?

Let’s get something straight: the Trump Administration is trying to fix a leaking boat, not sink it. With a federal bureaucracy bloated like a cow filled with green apples, some trimming’s bound to rattle a few folks who’ve grown fat on inefficiency. Trump’s reforms to Social Security aim to bring modernization and fraud prevention—noble aims if ever there were—and not, as Mr. Ford would have you believe, the dismantling of civilization as we know it.

Ford even took issue with the closure of a Las Vegas field office and called it a “disastrous” move. But lo and behold, the Social Security Administration said, “Whoa there, partner—we haven’t permanently closed a single local office.”

That’s right–no permanent closures, just a bit of reshuffling in the name of good governance.

The SSA’s also rolled out new phone policies to keep scammers from suckin’ funds outta Uncle Sam’s wallet. Folks now have to prove who they are either online or in person. Sure, it’s a tad inconvenient for those who still holler into rotary phones or live five hours from the nearest fiber-optic cable, but the alternative—rampant fraud—isn’t any better.

Still, Ford’s more interested in lawsuits than solutions. He’s got a whole cabinet full of‘em—suing over birthright citizenship, public health grants, even Elon Musk. I don’t know what Elon did to Nevada, but I reckon Mr. Ford’s got a dartboard with Musk’s face next to his “Sue Trump” calendar.

And yet, Ford insists, “I am not afraid…” Well, maybe he oughta be—of wasting taxpayer dollars on political theater while the folks back home want their checks to arrive on time and their country to work as promised. There’s a chasm between standing up for citizens and showboating for the next election cycle.

The truth is that the Trump Administration is doing the heavy lifting that previous ones were too timid to attempt. Reforming Social Security and other federal programs isn’t an act of cruelty it’s an act of necessity. And it’s about time someone did it.

So Mr. Ford can collect all the complaints he wants, but he’d do well to remember that whining ain’t policy and grandstanding ain’t governance.

Written in spirit, if not whiskey

Nevada has done what any seasoned card player would do with a losing hand–bluff confidence and hope the other fella folds. The state’s unemployment rate, that old tick on the thermometer of public misery, has eked its way down from 5.8 percent to 5.7 percent.

A cause for celebration, perhaps — if one were to cheer a leaky lifeboat just because it’s only taking on slightly less water.

Meanwhile, the Department of Employment, Training, and Rehabilitation–a name so long it might be mistaken for a railroad–reports that fewer folks signed up for jobless benefits last month, down a modest 1.1 percent. That sounds promising until you learn the state shelled out $44.9 million in March to the unemployed–a jump of $4.6 million, or 11.5 percent, from the month before.

Fewer hands held out, but each seemed to be grabbing more.

Las Vegas added 600 jobs–not enough to fill a casino lounge on a rainy Tuesday. Reno did slightly better with 800 new positions–proving once again that the Truckee River runs with a little more hustle than the Neon strip. However, Carson City lost 200 jobs–possibly chasing after a tumbleweed.

The state’s most booming sector was leisure and hospitality, which conjures images of bellhops and blackjack dealers reporting for duty–2,000 new positions appeared like a magic trick. The finance and trade sectors dropped by 1,000 and 900 jobs, respectively–which might explain why your local bank teller looks more nervous than usual.

Altogether, the labor force swelled by 4,095 souls. Of these, 4,730 found work–either legitimate or imaginative–and 635 went back to the waiting room of economic purgatory.

Now, if you look across the fence, you’ll see that other states are doing their fancy stepping, too. Of all places, Idaho strutted to the top with a 2.7 percent employment growth. Utah followed at 2.0 percent.

Meanwhile, Nevada’s annual growth waddled in at 0.6 percent — half the national pace. Las Vegas posted a paltry 0.1 percent increase from March 2024 while shedding 2,900 resort and 2,800 restaurant jobs like an old dog losing fur.

But don’t despair entirely. Construction is booming in the desert, with 6,000 new jobs springing up like cacti in a storm, perhaps heralding new hotels, bridges, and a large lemonade stand.

So here we are, a state with less joblessness, more payouts, and all the peculiar arithmetic that makes the economy feel tragic, comic, and strange enough to be true.

Embedded with the Marines. Fallujah. November 2004.

My notebook’s a fucking mess, sweat-soaked, dirt-ground, my camera’s dented, lens scratched. I write quickly, snapping the shots, hands unsteady.

At the Firebase—our base camp—things go wrong fast. Deliveries quit. No water, no supplies. The local nationals, those who hauled for us, cooked for us, they vanished.

Then their heads come. In bags. Dropped at the gate like a dare.

“Holy shit,” I say to Martinez, hunkered near me, rifle slack. “How many heads you reckon?”

“Don’t know, man,” he says, eyes flat. “I’m just waiting for the mission. Wondering why the water truck’s AWOL, why I’m stuck with this scratch-off phone card, an hour and a half for the goddamn morale phone.”

He’s young, still floating in some dream. Me too, pen and paper, trying to see all of it.

Big things are moving—but I’m low-level, out of the loop. No briefing comes. The information doesn’t trickle down. It sits, heavy, untold.

What would they say anyhow? “Hey, boys, if you’re asking where the help went, their heads are chopped off, stacked at the front door.”

Days drag, then the shit gets real. November 7, the night before the push, the platoon commander strides in, face hard as concrete.

“Write your death letters,” he says.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, skin crawling as I recall those long-forgotten memories.

Martinez says, “You fucking kidding me?”

He’s got a girl back home, parents too. He writes: “I fought for my country, my team. I love you. I miss you.”

The same to his folks—motivated kid shit, 18 years old, all bravado. He hands the letters to the commander, folded tight.

I write my death letter, beginning with “Dear Mary.” That’s as far as I get before tucking it into my pants pocket.

“A writer, with nothing to say,” I chuckle.

November 8, 0200, 0300, we stage. Load the 7-tons, big diesel hulks, loud, clumsy. They smoke cigarettes, light discipline loose on base, the ashes falling in the dark.

Ten minutes from the DVD player, the shitty chow, the slab called a bed, into hell. Our drive’s dead quiet, pure black, JP-8 fuel thick in my nose.

The truck rumbles–it shakes my bones. You feel it, the silence, the bond with no words.

No category holds it. Only this does–this moment, these men.

We hit the Cloverleaf, the highway ramps twisting outside Fallujah. Streetlights burning yellow. Gunshots crack—our guys shoot them out. 5.56 takes more than one shot–not clean like the movies. Then black, still.

The team leader jogs up. “Overwatch and push,” he says.

Martinez, point man, head on a swivel, no destination, laying intel back—where’s the enemy, what’s alive, whose dangerous.

The battalion’s four companies strong. I’m with the main thrust, with other units on the edges funneling in.

We reach a building on the outskirts. We hold Overwatch.

Humvees roll in—Mark 19s, .50 cals, 240s bolted to Mercedes jeeps. They L-shape, covering the grunts bounding forward, place to place, trained tight. Clear the city, they say.

It’s 0700, 0800, day just cracked. Sun’s creeping up, air’s foreign, sharp, quiet. Too quiet. Beautiful, almost insane.

Then, a jeep vanishes. Blown up, right there, fire and metal gone. “Holy fuck,” I breathe.

No child’s timeout, no break. Gunshots sputter, random.

Ground elements hustle. No martial law, no stability—just fighting.

There are no plans that I can spot. Spaghetti at the wall–toss it, and see what sticks.

“Push, establish Overwatch,” they tell us again. We do.

I’m on a rooftop, close to rear security. Watching the narrow stairwell.

Shots ping—the wall splinters near my head. “Fuck,” I yell, dropping lower.

They’re firing, engaging armed shapes, doing the job. But I’m stuck near an open doorway on the ground floor as shots zip all around.

I duck again, relearning fast. My ancient training is like a shadow, yet still solid.

Cold War moves fail here—urban tangle, kill houses, tunnels, rat lines, loopholes bored through walls. They shoot and run while overhead never sees them.

Later, I find Martinez. He lights a cigarette, his face hollow, smoke curling. He never used to smoke, but now.

“Taco Bell,” he says. “Crunchwrap Supreme, first stop out.”

Brooks, blood crusting his cheek, snorts. “You’ll puke it up, kid.”

Laughter, as I write it up and snap a frame of the flare of his match.

Doc Hayes drags in a wounded Marine, face locked tight. I get that, shutter clicking.

I see it, smell it, feel it. Never shake it. Never will.

The Marines push, and my notebook full, camera scarred, telling it true as they clear this hell, house by house, soul by soul.

If you’ve never seen a smoke signal rise over the Capitol dome, you ain’t never watched a Nevada politician try to fix a problem he just found out he helped create. The Secretary of State, Francisco Aguilar, descended upon Carson City with a host of handlers, assistants, and earnest expressions to listen.

Which, in political arithmetic, is worth about as much as a gold rush after the gold is gone.

Let us not be unfair. Mr. Aguilar, a man of commendable shortness and uncommonly clean boots for a politician, came to meet with Nevada’s tribal communities—not to sell them snake oil, mind you, but to hear their woes about that most elusive creature–the vote. It’s strange how voting, a task no more complicated than licking an envelope, becomes a quest of epic proportions when conducted across tribal lands.

Stacey Montooth–a name as solid and reliable as tufa– explained that many Native citizens must drive an hour and a half to vote. That’s an hour and a half one way, mind you—not including the time spent waiting in line behind a rancher, two Jehovah’s Witnesses, and that fellow who thinks every election’s rigged unless his cousin wins.

To fix this, the State did a marvelous thing–it launched what it calls the Effective Absenteeism System for Elections—EASE–for short and not by coincidence. The contraption allows tribal citizens to cast votes from the comfort of their homes—or at least the nearest broadband signal strong enough to load a webpage without collapsing from exhaustion.

Sixty-one voters from eleven tribes used it, which may not sound like much, but out in the windy West–that’s a landslide.

They also set up three new polling stations, bringing the total to twenty across tribal lands. The act, which required at least four meetings, five press releases, and one ceremonial ribbon-cutting, led to a 36 percent increase in tribal voter turnout.

Politicians, ever fond of a good number that makes them look busier than they are, pointed to this with wide eyes and thunderous declarations.

“It was an aha moment,” Mr. Aguilar proclaimed.

And what a sound an “aha” makes echoing through the marble halls of bureaucracy! It is, in fact, the sound of a man discovering that Native Americans also wish to vote—something any schoolchild with a history book could’ve told you.

Ever eager to show his sincerity, the Secretary has launched a listening tour among all 28 tribes, bands, and colonies in Nevada. It will require a vast supply of folding chairs, maps, coffee, and patience. But if democracy must travel by horse cart and iPad, then so be it.

Lastly, in the name of “voter roll integrity,” which is to say, pruning the names of those who moved, died, or wandered off—Mr. Aguilar inactivated some 37,000 voters and removed 160,000 registrations statewide. It startled the local press, who had assumed voter rolls were as eternal and unchanging as the Sierra Nevadas.

All told–the endeavor is admirable, though I daresay if politicians had to ride a mule for three days to cast their vote, we’d see reform faster than a gambler folding on a bad hand. So, how many politicians does it take to send a smoke signal?

Just one—provided he has a camera crew, a publicist, a well-placed quote about democracy, and a Wi-Fi signal strong enough to carry it to Twitter.