The Old Blog in the Desert

My throat felt rough as gravel, and my eyelids heavy as a sack of wet grain. “How much longer I got to stay awake, Pa?”

“Just a little bit longer, boy,” Pa said, his tone steady. “You’ll get a chance to rest soon enough.”

He poked at the blaze with a stick, sending sparks swirling up into the dark like a scatter of stars.

“This is a damn fool thing, you know,” I grumbled, squinting at the flames roaring high and hot. “Got this fire blazing like a beacon, practically begging for trouble to ride in.”

Pa snorted, the sound sharp as a whipcrack. “That fire’s keeping us warm, you ornery cuss. A flea on a horse’s hind end’s worth more than all your gripin’ and groanin’.”

The snap of a twig and Pa muttered, “Go fetch my scattergun,” before calling, “Who’s out there?”

He straightened, his hand resting easy on the worn grip of his Colt. “All right, come on out now, afore I start shootin’. You hear me?”

A voice cut through the night, low and smooth as a river stone. “Hold up, mister. I mean you no harm.”

Pa’s eyes narrowed, glinting like steel in the firelight. “I’ll be the judge of that. Speak your piece—and be fast about it.”

“Please, don’t shoot,” the stranger said, stepping slowly into the glow. “I can explain.”

“Quit toyin’ with him, Pa, and plug the son of a gun!” I snapped, my patience frayed thin as old rope.

“Shut up, boy,” Pa barked, his gaze never leaving the man. “One step closer, stranger and the next one’ll be in your belly.”

The man froze, hands raised. “Please, sir, if you let me come up, you’ll see I ain’t no danger to you.”

Pa chewed on that for a moment, then tilted his head. “I reckon there’s more’n one of you out there, seein’ as you ain’t tucked tail and run by now.”

“If I had company,” the stranger said, calm as a still pond, “wouldn’t they be at your back already?”

Pa grunted–a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a curse. “Go on, then. What’re you after?”

“Just a place to rest for the night,” the man said, easing closer now. “A map or a line on the nearest town, and I swear I’ll be on my way come mornin’. Look at me—I ain’t in no shape to trouble you or yours.”

The man was without boots, and his holster was empty.

Pa squinted at him, then glanced at me. “I reckon this one’s a mite touched, ain’t he, boy?”

The stranger gave a faint smile like he’d heard worse. “I know this might tickle you some, but I’d mighty like to know if you can help me. What you got there?”

He nodded at Pa’s hand, where a twist of tobacco sat pinched between his fingers.

“Only the finest leaf in five states,” Pa said, offering it over.

“What’s your name, stranger?”

“Carl, sir,” he replied, taking the tobacco with a nod.

“Well, Carl, you’re welcome to bed down here tonight,” Pa said. “That’s about all I can do for you. Ain’t got no maps, but I’ll point you true come daylight.”

Carl settled by the fire, warming his hands. “Would you like to know what happened to me tonight?”

Pa grinned–a rare thing that split his weathered face like a crack in stone. “Let me guess—you was robbed by a man decked out in black?”

Carl’s jaw dropped. “Yeah, but how’d you know?”

“Well,” Pa said, leaning back, “I was sheriff of a town ‘bout ten miles east of here. Retired recent-like. Seen plenty of tales like yours.”

“You were sheriff?” Carl asked, eyes wide.

“Sure was,” Pa said. “So, was I right? That the yarn you was fixin’ to spin?”

“Yeah,” Carl said, scratching his head, “but this fella was different. Polite as you please, even while he was trussin’ me up. Kept sayin’ how cooperative I was. First, I wasn’t even sure he aimed to rob me—then it was over quick as a rattler’s strike.”

Pa chuckled, deep and low. “Well, ain’t that a hoot? You met Black Jack Holmes. Famous as they come ‘round these parts. You’re a lucky man.”

“Black Jack Holmes?” Carl echoed, like the name carried weight he couldn’t heft yet.

They called him Black Jack Holmes, a name that drifted through the saloons and stagecoach stops like a tumbleweed on a lonesome wind. Wasn’t no ordinary road agent, this one.

Most bandits’ would stick a gun in your face and snarl for your coin, but Holmes? He’d tip his hat, flash a grin that’d charm a rattlesnake, and ask for your valuables like he was borrowin’ a cup of sugar.

Folks said he’d robbed more coaches than there were stars over the Llano Estacado, yet half the tales swore he never fired a shot unless he had to—and even then, it was to wing a man, not bury him.

He cut a lean figure, Holmes did, tall as a cottonwood and dressed in black from boots to brim, with a coat that flared like a raven’s wings when he rode. That blackjack of his—a short, leather-wrapped club—was his mark, tucked in his belt like a preacher’s Bible.

He’d use it to rap a man senseless quicker than you could draw a breath, but he’d always leave ‘em breathing, tied neat with a knot that’d shame a sailor.

“No sense in killin’ a man over a few dollars,” he’d say, voice smooth as whiskey over ice, “when he’s apt to earn more for me to take later.”

Word was he’d been a gambler once, a cardsharp who could read a man’s soul in the flick of an ace. Some claimed he turned outlaw after a night in Abilene when a cattle baron caught him dealing from the bottom and swore to string him up.

Others reckoned he’d been a lawman himself gone crooked after seein’ too much justice bend for the rich. Whatever his trail, he’d washed up in the badlands east of the Pecos, a shadow among the mesquite, preying on the stage lines that rattled through the dust.

Take the night he hit the San Antonio-El Paso run, nigh-on ten miles from Pa’s campfire. The driver, a grizzled cuss named Jed Tully, told it later over a bottle of rotgut.

Moon was high, silvering the scrub, when Holmes stepped from the dark, his horse—a coal-black Mustang—silent as death.

“Evenin’, friend,” he said, polite as a Parson. “I’ll be takin’ your strongbox if you’d be so kind.”

Jed reached for his scattergun, but that blackjack flashed, and he woke up trussed like a steer, the box gone, with Holmes tipping his hat as he rode off.

“Much obliged for your cooperation,” he called, and Jed swore the bastard was laughin’.

Folks couldn’t figure Holmes. He’d rob a man blind, sure, but he’d leave a dollar in your pocket for a meal or slip a trinket back to a lady passenger with a wink.

Once, they said, he hit a payroll coach, then rode into the next town and bought drinks for the whole saloon—paid with the company’s silver. The law chased him plenty, but he’d vanish like smoke, leaving sheriffs cussin’ and posses lost in the canyons.

Some swore he had a hideout in the Guadalupes, a cave stacked with loot and guarded by a wolf meaner than sin. Others figured he just knew the land better’n God Himself.

Pa reckoned he’d met him that night by the fire, and maybe he had. Carl—call him what you will—didn’t fit the mold of a killer, and that blackjack tale rang true as a church bell.

But Holmes wasn’t a saint, either. He’d gut a man if pushed, and there were whispers of a Pinkerton he’d left cold in the dirt after a double-cross. Still, the frontier loved him for it—loved the gall, the grin, the way he danced on the edge of the law like a cat on a hot tin roof.

So, who was Black Jack Holmes?

A thief with a gentleman’s heart or a devil playin’ at bein’ good? Maybe both. Out there, where the sun blisters and the wind carries a man’s sins away, he was a legend carved in shadow and dust.

And if you ever saw a rider in black tipping his hat as he took your gold, you’d know—you’d met the man himself and lived to tell the tale.

“All right if I catch some shut-eye now, Pa?” I asked. “Good night, Mister.”

Pa said, “Come mornin’, head east. Town’s that way—folks there’ll sort you out.”

Carl nodded, curling up near the fire. I watched him as Pa got up.

That’s when Carl struck, his voice turning hard as flint. He sprang up, a knife glinting in his hand.

“Now, you’re gonna gimme everything you got of value, or I’ll gut you and your boy like hogs.”

I heard Pa chuckle as Carl said, “Think this is a game?”

Pa didn’t flinch. “Not at all. You reckon that famous Black Jack Holmes—the gentleman robber—would waste his time on a lowlife like you?”

“Shut your damn mouth or I’ll slit your throat.” Carl snarled.

“Knew you was a lyin’, mister,” Pa said.

“Drop that knife, easy now,” I said, my Colt flashing smooth as silk.

“I was only foolin’ with you,” Carl said.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t,” I said.

I stepped in close, my piece drawn steady.

Pa turned and held his hand out for the knife, “Much obliged for your cooperation, Carl.”

Pa grinned at me, “Well, boy, looks like we tangled with a different breed of outlaw tonight.”

That’s about when he saw the wanted posters that Pa had been busy burning when Carl interrupted him. He recognized the face in the line drawing as the man standing before him.

“Oh, son of a—” Carl started, but the fight was gone from him, and the night swallowed the rest.

If the Virginia City Muckers felt high and mighty after steamrolling Coleville 14-4, the Portola Tigers quickly brought them back to earth. The Muckers took a 13-8 tumble, marking their fourth straight defeat at the hands of the Tigers. With that loss, Virginia City now finds itself in rough shape at 2-7 on the season, while Portola clawed its way to 4-3, snapping a five-game home losing streak that stretched back to last year.

The Muckers have been surrendering nearly 10 runs per game, which doesn’t bode well for their chances of turning the tide. Meanwhile, the Bulldogs weren’t just winning—they were putting on a clinic in Smith Valley.

Fresh off back-to-back blowout victories, they kept the train rolling with a 16-1 mauling of the Wolves. For Smith Valley, winning big is just business as usual—they’ve now racked up three wins of 12 or more runs this season.

Wyatt Wulfing and Cole Balda were at the heart of the action, dealing damage on both sides of the ball. Wulfing was dominant on the mound, tossing two innings without surrendering a hit or an earned run. At the plate, he went 3-for-4, smacked his first home run of the season, and drove in five runs for good measure. Balda, meanwhile, added his own two innings of scoreless pitching, went 2-for-4 with a run, and swiped a base.

The Bulldogs’ bats were red-hot, with Gaston Rodriguez and Devin Gleason leading on the basepaths. Rodriguez crossed home plate four times and stole three bags, while Gleason added two runs and three steals of his own.

With a blistering team batting average of .560, Smith Valley has been putting on a hitting masterclass, posting averages north of .485 in three straight games. Smith Valley now sits at 3-1, riding a nine-game home winning streak that dates back to last season, in that they’ve been downright ruthless, averaging over 14 runs per contest.

As for Virginia City, they’ll have to shake off another loss and prepare for their next battle. They’d be wise to remember what happened last time they tangled with Smith Valley—back in March, the Bulldogs shut them out 14-0.

They say turnabout is fair play, and the Lowry Buckaroos took that to heart when they stepped onto the field against the Fernley Vaqueros. With memories of their last meeting in March still fresh, Lowry made sure there would be no repeat of that loss, galloping away with an emphatic 11-3 victory.

For whatever reason, the home field has been more of a hindrance than a help when these two teams clash. It marks the third straight contest where the visiting squad has walked away victorious. And this time, it was the Vaqueros who felt the sting. The loss is Fernley’s biggest since February 28, extending their home losing streak to five.

Not that Riley McCullar let the scoreboard dull his bat—he made the most of his time at the plate, going 2-for-4 and scoring a run. But his efforts weren’t enough to stop Lowry’s stampede.

The Buckaroos, now back to an even 7-7 record, were led by Erick Valencia, who put on a base-running clinic. Reaching base in all five plate appearances, he crossed home plate three times and swiped two bases, setting a new career-high in runs scored. Michael Heikkila wasn’t far behind, tallying two runs and a stolen base while reaching base four times.

Lowry’s lineup showed patience and precision, posting an on-base percentage of .523. That number is more than just eye-catching—it’s a winning formula. The Buckaroos are a perfect 5-0 when they clear the .513 OBP mark, proving that a steady stream of baserunners is their key to success.

For Fernley, the defeat drops them to 3-11-1, and the road ahead doesn’t get any easier, even when averaging 2.7 stolen bases per game. However, Lowry has been even bolder, swiping 3.1 per contest.

In a display of criminal consistency that would make even the most loyal baseball fans wince, local man Zach Neely found himself tagged out not– once but twice–after allegedly swiping hundreds of dollars worth of baseball cards from Walmart.

Deputy Spencer Hagan of the Nye County Sheriff’s Office responded to Walmart’s call where Neely was reportedly seen making a break for it—albeit in a white GMC Denali rather than on foot. Hagan intercepted him before he could steal home, placing him in handcuffs and seating him in the patrol car, where the suspect promptly confessed to the previous day’s heist as well.

According to the arrest report, Neely, perhaps mistaking himself for a bankable major leaguer, admitted he “had the means of paying for the items, but just chose not to.” This bold strategy, while impressive in its sheer audacity, did not, as it turns out, pay off.

Inside the vehicle, deputies discovered what Hagan described as a “plethora” of baseball cards—though it’s unclear whether Neely was aiming to start a collection or open an underground trading post. Walmart’s surveillance footage confirmed that Neely had indeed rounded all points of sale without so much as a courtesy nod to the cash register, swiping approximately $530 worth of cards.

In a move that suggests Neely believes in second chances—at least for himself—he had allegedly attempted this same stunt at the same Walmart two years prior. Store security had a memory longer than he anticipated.

With this history in mind, law enforcement concluded that Neely would continue treating Walmart like his personal clubhouse unless stopped, leading to his arrest on two counts of petit larceny.

It remains unknown whether Neely will attempt a third inning in this ongoing match-up against Walmart, but for now, he’s benched—by the Nye County Sheriff’s Office.

Brought to You by Sheer Neglect

In a grand tour of child-rearing ingenuity, two aspiring candidates for the Worst Parents of the Year got arrested after officers discovered their domestic arrangements could double as a cautionary tale.

One Mr. Dontre Durel Calhoun, aged 31, and his equally responsible counterpart, Ms. Jasmine Delgado, aged 24, found themselves in the tender embrace of the Carson City Sheriff’s Office after law enforcement stumbled upon the sort of living conditions that make Dickensian orphanages look downright cozy.

The saga began with an old-fashioned domestic dispute—three people in a one-bedroom apartment engaging in that timeless art of yelling at one another. Deputies arrived to restore order and–as fate would have it, were granted permission to search for a lost phone.

Instead, they found a two-year-old child in a playpen, blissfully unaware that her world consisted of a marijuana bong, a set of kitchen knives teetering precariously overhead, and a backpack full of mystery goodies—later revealed to contain enough dispensary bags to make a seasoned hippie weep with joy.

The playpen, a veritable wonderland of neglect, contained an old sweatshirt, stale food crumbs, and a sippy cup filled with curdled milk—perfect for a growing child with a taste for gastrointestinal distress. Meanwhile, the rest of the apartment appeared to have been decorated in the ever-popular “Disaster Chic” style, featuring piles of trash, dirty dishes, and enough scattered clothing to outfit a small village.

Not to be outdone, the resident furniture arrangement included an air mattress bravely holding the doorway hostage and a crockpot—yes, a crockpot—perched on a microwave just 14 inches from the child’s grasp. As any seasoned parent will tell you, nothing spices up childcare like a boiling pot of stew within arm’s reach of a toddler.

Further investigation turned up an impressive liquor cabinet under the bed, consisting of vodka bottles, an empty Buzzball container, an ashtray of cigarette butts, and a delightful Sunkist cocktail laced with alcohol—because nothing screams “child-friendly” like a liquor drink within crawling distance.

Ever the gallant gentleman, Calhoun claimed ownership of these items and even admitted purchasing the vodka. His chivalry, however, did not extend to keeping the place fit for human habitation.

With the curdled milk, alcohol buffet, hot crockpot hazard, and the aura of wretchedness well-documented, deputies did the only sensible thing and hauled both esteemed guardians off to jail on felony child endangerment charges. Their bail, set at $40,000 apiece, is a small price for their contribution to the “What Not to Do” chapter of Parenting 101.

The Division of Child and Family Services swooped in to rescue the young girl from this carnival of chaos, later releasing her into the custody of her godmother, presumably someone with a better understanding of the concept of basic hygiene and safety.

And so concludes yet another thrilling installment of “What on Earth Were They Thinking?”—a tale of woe, wretchedness, and one exceedingly fortunate child who now has a chance at a better life, thanks to the fine folks at law enforcement and good old-fashioned common sense.

Ever the overachiever in affairs of fortune and folly, Nevada continues to boast the highest unemployment rate in the nation, proudly standing at a resolute 5.8 percent. While other states may scramble for second place, the Silver State remains firm, unwavering in its commitment to economic unpredictability.

The February jobs report, freshly dispensed by the Nevada Department of Employment, Training, and Rehabilitation (DETR), announced a statewide job loss of 1,600, with the Las Vegas metro area alone bidding farewell to 3,600 positions. A silver lining? January’s numbers were even worse, with Sin City shedding 7,500 jobs, suggesting that perhaps we are not careening toward catastrophe but merely stumbling in a controlled fashion.

Up north, Reno stumbled upon a lucky horseshoe, gaining 500 jobs, while Carson City, ever faithful to its quiet traditions, lost 200. The shifting of fortunes is not yet explainable. However, one suspects Reno’s newfound prosperity involves a boom in artisanal coffee shops or an influx of Californians looking for cheaper rent.

DETR’s chief economist, David Schmidt, assures us that things are going as expected. “The unemployment rate remains steady, and trends in hourly wage growth remain strong, reflecting ongoing demand for workers in the state.”

That demand, however, appears to be of the wishful-thinking variety in certain quarters.

Federal tumult in Washington has yet to make a discernible dent in Nevada’s labor landscape. Patience remains advised as there’s still time for the government to lend a helping hand in worsening the situation.

Layoffs in the National Park Service and General Services Administration have been small thus far, but uncertainty surrounding federal grants and programs leaves the door open for future misfortune. The Reno-Sparks area alone has already seen a decline of 100 federal jobs, which will no doubt be a blow to those who once found comfort in the steady hum of bureaucracy.

Meanwhile, initial unemployment claims fell by 16 percent from January to February, indicating either an improving job market or a growing resignation among the unemployed. In total, 10,748 filed claims in February, down slightly from a year ago.

Schmidt, maintaining his steady-handed optimism, describes the situation as a “rebalancing” following the state’s rapid post-COVID expansion.

“Annual employment growth fell to 0.4 percent in Nevada, led by declines in the logistics, information, and professional and business services industries,” he noted.

These industries enjoyed such prosperity in recent years that they’ve decided to take a well-earned nap.

The labor force did, however, grow by 3,318 in February, with 3,658 new workers finding employment and 340 others vanishing from the ranks of the unemployed. Whether those 340 have secured new jobs or stopped looking remains an open question.

Nevada, for now, retains its dubious crown as the nation’s leader in unemployment. But with trends shifting and numbers jostling about like dice on a craps table, only time will tell if the state continues to hold its title—or if another contender will rise to snatch the prize of economic uncertainty.

In a display of government ingenuity that would make even P.T. Barnum tip his hat, the U.S. Bureau of Land Management has cooked up a plan to sell off 5,500 acres of good, wholesome Nevada dirt, scattered across 66 plots like a miser tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons. The lucky recipients of this grand proposition are the fine folks of Lincoln County, whose towns—Alamo, Caliente, Crestline, Hiko, Panaca, Pioche, Mt. Wilson, and the ever-mysterious Rachel—have been hand-selected to receive the privilege of watching their backyards become real estate listings.

The noble endeavor is all part of the Lincoln County Conservation, Recreation, and Development Act of 2004, a law which, if its title is any indication, must surely mean that selling off public lands to the highest bidder is an act of conservation, recreation, and development all rolled into one. Among the prized parcels up for grabs are tracts of land along the Extraterrestrial Highway, where would-be buyers can rub elbows with conspiracy theorists and little green men, and plots near the Crestline landfill, which offers breathtaking views of discarded washing machines and the occasional windblown grocery bag.

The fine citizens of Lincoln County, whose allegiances lean more toward Utah than the distant glitz of Las Vegas, have reacted with all the enthusiasm of a cat introduced to a bathtub. Officially, the BLM’s social media post has generated a modest trickle of interest—three comments by the following day, suggesting the public is either stunned into silence or too busy digesting their supper to type.

Unofficially, however, the wailing and gnashing of teeth elsewhere on social media sets a different story.

“You’re selling freedom!” cries one impassioned voice, a sentiment that, while poetic, gives Uncle Sam a little too much credit for his skill in merchandising.

Others see the gleam of a burgeoning tax base, envisioning paved roads, fresh schoolhouses, and maybe even a second gas station. And then there is the eternal chorus of citizens who are against anything the BLM does on principle, be it land sales, map-making, or breathing in an official capacity.

Whether this grand scheme ends in prosperity, ruin, or a high-stakes poker game between a real estate developer and a local rancher remains to be seen. Either way, the Great American Land Sale rolls on, and Lincoln County is next in line at the auction block.

Appointment Sets the Stage for a Political Tempest

In a move as subtle as a brass band at a funeral, President Trump has appointed Republican firebrand Sigal Chattah as interim U.S. Attorney for the District of Nevada, setting off a political ruckus louder than a prizefight in a saloon. Chattah, a Las Vegas attorney with a penchant for courtroom brawls and a history of setting Democratic tempers ablaze, now finds herself at the helm of federal prosecutions in the Silver State—at least for the next 120 days or until the U.S. Senate gets around to throwing a bucket of water on the whole affair.

Chattah, whose legal career has been one lawsuit after another, assured the public it is her honor to “administrate justice equally” and root out corruption as her critics claim she is more likely to plant a political flag than a badge of impartiality. Nevada’s Democratic senators, Catherine Cortez Masto and Jacky Rosen, responded to the appointment with all the enthusiasm of a man finding a scorpion in his boot, branding Chattah an “election denier” with a “history of racist remarks” and pledging to fight her confirmation as though it were a duel at dawn.

One of Chattah’s past statements includes hanging her Democratic opponent, Aaron Ford. It is the “racist” comment Masoto Cortez and Rosen speak of, referring to the fact that Ford is a Black man–which also suggests it is a sexist remark, too.

However, Nevada Republicans have hailed her appointment as a victory for law and order in the tradition of shaking up the establishment. Nevada GOP Chairman Michael McDonald declared that under Chattah’s watch, “it will be a bad day to be a bad guy,” which, given the political climate, might include anyone who holds socialist views.

The White House has yet to formally comment on Chattah’s appointment, perhaps too occupied with the uproar in the Senate or simply enjoying the show. Meanwhile, Trump’s administration, never one to shy away from an old-fashioned political scrap, has employed similar tactics elsewhere, appointing Alina Habba, his former personal attorney, as the interim U.S. Attorney in New Jersey.

With the fate of her confirmation still in the air and Nevada’s political landscape more divided than a gambler’s last dollar, one thing’s known–the next few months will be anything but dull.

A searing sun glared down upon the boundless wastes of Tau Ceti IV, a barren tapestry of rock and dust unbroken by any hint of vitality. The only sound was the ceaseless murmur of shifting sands, a dry whisper in the void.

A figure clad in a silver space suit trudged through the dunes, boots sinking into the relentless terrain. The figure faltered, dropped to its knees, and with unsteady hands, unfastened the helmet. The faceplate lifted, revealing Jonas Carver—eyes hollow, breath ragged.

Within the sterile expanse of Pathfinder 7 two hours prior, a lone hibernation pod thrummed in a vast chamber. A sharp hiss pierced the silence as pressurized air escaped, and the pod’s lid glided open with mechanical grace.

Inside lay Jonas Carver, his chest rising as awareness returned. His eyes blinked open, adjusting to the stark artificial glow.

With a grunt, he sat up, swung his legs over the side, and promptly crumpled to the floor. Moments later, he rose steadier and shuffled to a chessboard in the corner. He lifted a black rook and paused before setting it down with purpose.

“Jonas Carver, Pathfinder 7, mission log,” he rasped, voice rough but resolute. “Luyten 726-8C was a wash, like the three before it. Nitrogen levels spiked—inhale too long, and you’d be dizzy before you’re dead. Another cosmic letdown joins the parade of disappointments, bleeding our time and resources. On the upside, I nearly landed without painting the cockpit green. Improvement, I guess. Tau Ceti, I’m oh-for-four—don’t fail me now.” He smirked faintly. “Hey, Cal, ping my wife, will you? Cal? …Cal?”

Far across the void, another voice logged its defeat. “Mira Tanek, Pathfinder 12, mission report. Wolf 1061D’s a bust—methane saturation at eighty parts per million. We’ve been at this too long. What if this is all there is? Just… vast, hollow nothing.”

Yet hope endured. “Lorin Carver, Pathfinder 4, mission log. Two down, three to go. A new world’s out there, and we’ll claim it. Course locked for Proxima Centauri B—ETA eight months. Ever the dreamer.”

Jonas spoke as soon as the report finished, a private report to his wife, Lorin, “Recording in progress. Hey, love, it’s me. We’re just a few thousand light-years apart now—strange to think about, huh? Saw your report; you’re zero-for-two. I’m zero-for-four, so you’re outpacing me twofold. Your stats look strong—these next three’ll pass quickly. I’m minutes from Tau Ceti, so I’d better prep. Miss you. Talk soon.”

The message chimed: Sending to Pathfinder 04.

“Cal? …Not you too.”

Pathfinder 7’s doors parted with a soft whoosh. “Good morning, Jonas,” intoned Cal, the ship’s AI, its voice a steady anchor amid the storm of Jonas’s mind.

“Morning, tin man. Where’d you vanish to? Thought you’d bailed.”

“I’m afraid I don’t grasp ‘bailed,’ Jonas.”

“Forget it.”

“My memory banks don’t allow forgetting, Jonas. Your rook was pinned last I checked.”

“Why’d you go silent earlier?”

“A circuit fault in the command module. Resolved when you restarted my systems.”

“Convenient. Send Lorin that message, yeah?”

“Processing now, Jonas. You’ve got one incoming. I’m syncing status reports as we speak.”

“That glitch fry your wiring?”

“Reports are current post-reboot. The fault blocked incoming comms—started nine months back.”

“Nine months? These logs are relics!”

“Accurate, Jonas. Updating now—give it a few minutes.”

The bridge called. Jonas stepped in as Cal announced, “Reports syncing. One new message from Pathfinder 4. Tau Ceti landing in five.”

Jonas nodded, peering through the viewport as Lorin’s voice broke through. “Hey, you’re likely nearing Tau Ceti now—can’t believe it. I’m proud of us, and how far we’ve pushed. I’m on Proxima B—stunning, right? It’s almost Earth reborn. Except it’s not. Too tight to its star—six hundred degrees Fahrenheit daily. An atmosphere so close to ours, yet I can’t step out. Wondering why I’m still here? We lost Tanek last month. Yesterday, Korrin, Vey, and Salvo dropped off too.”

“No way,” Jonas muttered. “Cal, refresh Salvo’s page.”

“Refreshed, Jonas.”

“Again.”

“Reports are still updating, Jonas. Hear this next part carefully.”

Lorin’s tone sharpened. “My Cal unit was dark after reanimation. There’s a glitch in the EM Drive—circuit failure cuts comms and thruster restart. Jonas, if it hits you, you’re grounded too. I’ve got four, maybe five days before Proxima’s heat cracks the hull.”

“When was that sent?” Jonas’s voice broke.

“Thirty-one days ago, Jonas,” Cal replied.

Jonas staggered through Tau Ceti’s sands, the sun an unyielding overseer. He sank to his knees, unlatched his helmet, and let it tumble away.

His voice, calm now, pierced the wind. “To anyone who hears this, this is Jonas Carver, Pathfinder 7, Eden Initiative. Attached are coordinates for Tau Ceti IV—our new haven. Temperatures not too fierce nor too frigid, an atmosphere perfectly balanced for life. The trek may take months, perhaps years. I’ll be here.”

The sand whispered on, unheeding.

23andMe, the widely known DNA testing company, has found itself in a financial pickle and declared bankruptcy. In response, attorneys general across the land are waving red flags, urging folks to delete their genetic data before it ends up in the hands of someone with fewer scruples than a coyote in a henhouse.

Nevada’s own AG, Aaron Ford, is among them, calling on Nevadans to exercise a little frontier wisdom and wipe their information from the company’s records. And before anyone faints from alarm, it must be said the bankruptcy itself has not compromised private genetic data—at least not yet.

The concern is that 23andMe, now desperate to find a buyer, holds an Aladdin’s cave of genetic secrets, and whoever comes by with a bag of gold may very well end up owning it all. The company insists it remains committed to customer privacy and that any buyer must adhere to the law, but AG Ford ain’t feeling charitable enough to take them at their word.

As such, his office issued an alert advising Nevadans to consider deleting their genetic information before it ends up traded like poker chips at a saloon.

“I urge Nevadans to access their accounts on 23andMe’s website and consider deleting their shared genetic data in order to ensure their privacy,” said Ford, like a preacher pounding the pulpit. “23andMe has indicated they will continue to honor such actions, and users should make use of this option as soon as possible.”

For its part, 23andMe insists all is well. In an open letter to customers, the company declared that data remains protected, access is unchanged, and business is continuing as usual—hardly the sort of thing one expects to hear from an outfit in dire financial straits.

But if history has taught us anything, a company in a bad way tends to make promises as solid as a sandcastle at high tide.

For those wary of their DNA becoming a bargaining chip in corporate dealings–you can cut ties. You can log in, fiddle with some settings, and request your DNA sample get destroyed or your account permanently deleted.

Ford also points out that destroying your sample prevents it from being used in research, a wise move for those who don’t fancy their genetic blueprint lingering in limbo. Meanwhile, the AG’s office is keeping a sharp eye on 23andMe’s handling of consumer data as the bankruptcy process unfolds, prepared to step in if necessary.

Until then, Nevadans might do well to take a lesson from the Old West—when in doubt, don’t leave your valuables lying around for the wrong folks to find.