The Old Blog in the Desert

Davud sat across from me, a quiet presence in the small café in downtown Reno, his hands wrapped around a coffee cup. His eyes, dark and still, held something more than the ordinary wear of time.

It was as if he carried the weight of all he had lived through. His voice, when he spoke, was steady but worn. I was there to interview him for the newspaper.

“You know,” he started, looking down at the table as though the memories were unfolding before him, “I never thought I’d be here, in the States. Safe, I mean.” He paused, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “Back then, I didn’t think there’d be a ‘back then.’ There was just the war. Every day felt like the same. You wake up, and you don’t know if you’ll make it through. The sounds of bombs, the gunfire… it never stops.”

His eyes lifted then, meeting mine. “The worst part is the quiet. You get used to the noise. But when everything stops, that’s when you know something’s wrong. That’s when you know the next explosion is coming.”

I leaned in, listening, not wanting to interrupt but needing to understand more of what he was trying to tell me. “What was it like for you… in that apartment?” I asked as if to match the heaviness of the moment.

His gaze softened, and he gave a small, almost reluctant smile. “We didn’t go outside much. You couldn’t. Too dangerous. I remember we covered the windows with plastic and blankets. It was winter, but the cold… it was just another thing to endure.”

He rubbed his face as though trying to rub away the memory. “My family and I huddled together inside, trying to stay warm. We wore our coats in the house. But it was never enough, you know? That cold—it gets into your bones. And it never really goes away.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle between us. “Did you… did you ever think about leaving?” I asked gently.

He shook his head. “Leaving? Where would I go? We didn’t have a choice. You just kept going. Every day, just trying to survive. Sometimes, we ate what we grew on the balcony—just a few vegetables. But it was never enough. So, we waited for the UN drops. When they came, it was like a little party. We got food, and for a moment, it felt like someone still cared. But you knew the next time they came, there might not be anything.”

The silence between us deepened, filled with the weight of things he hadn’t said–yet.

His voice broke the quiet again, almost in a whisper. “My brother went out for water once. We didn’t have taps, so we had to go to the wells. He didn’t come back.” He looked down at his coffee, his expression unreadable. “A sniper. That’s what they told me. A sniper shot him down.”

I felt the sadness in his words, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak. “I’m sorry, Davud,” I said finally, unsure what else to say.

He nodded, almost as if accepting the apology, but there was no anger, no bitterness, just a quiet acknowledgment. “My mother, she cried a lot after that. She doesn’t talk much now. Even her silence is full of sadness. And my father… he stays busy. Always fixing something, always looking for food. I think he does it to distract himself from the pain. He’s never the same, not since that day.”

I waited, giving him space, as he seemed to gather his thoughts. “And school?” I asked, unsure if it was a subject too far away, something he no longer cared to remember.

His lips pressed together before he spoke, his voice tinged with a strange kind of bitterness. “School? School was in the basement. The real schools, they were gone. No electricity, so we learned by candlelight. Our teacher told us stories about peace, about what Sarajevo was like before all this. I couldn’t picture it. It was like some fairy tale from another world. I missed my friends. Some left, some didn’t make it. The classroom got quieter each day.”

His words were so matter-of-fact, yet they hit me like a punch. “And the cat?” I asked, needing to move to something lighter, something to pull us out of the heaviness.

Davud’s face softened. A small, almost imperceptible smile appeared at the corner of his lips. “The cat,” he repeated. “Yeah, I found her under the building one day. She was scared and hungry, just like us. We took her in, fed her what little we had. She slept on my bed. Her purring… it was the only comfort we had. It made the nights a little less lonely.” He paused, then added, “I think she saved us, in a way.”

I smiled then, relieved to hear that small glimmer of tenderness in his voice. “It sounds like she gave you a reason to keep going,” I said.

“Maybe,” he answered softly, his eyes distant. “There were times when the quiet would come, and we’d think it was over. But then the explosions would start again. We learned not to trust the silence. We learned that peace could be over in an instant.”

“And when the fighting stopped for a little while?” I asked, my voice almost hesitant.

“That one morning,” he began, his eyes sharp with the memory, “there was no fighting. We went out to get water. It was quiet. And you knew it could start again at any second. But for a moment, it was like everything had stopped. We filled the buckets and ran back. And that night… that night we drank the water slowly, like it was something precious. It was the one normal thing we had. For just a moment.”

I sat back, letting the weight of his words settle. “You still dream of peace, don’t you?” I asked.

He nodded slowly, staring off into the distance. “I dreamed of walking in the park, without worrying about snipers. I dreamed of school, real school. I dreamed of a city where children play without fear.” His voice softened, almost wistful. “But dreams don’t change what’s happened. All we could do is survive. Wait. Hope.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say for a long while. When I finally spoke, it was quieter than before. “What happens now?” I asked.

“Now?” he said, looking back at me with a faint smile, “Now we live. We keep going, day by day. I write it down, so I don’t forget. So I don’t forget that we survived. Even when everything was falling apart.” His eyes met mine again, clear and steady. “We hold on to what we have left.”

And then, with a finality I couldn’t deny, he added, “Because we must.”

It’s acknowledged by all who have ever driven through Nevada in the summer that once the snow melts and the days grow longer, so too does the mighty reign of the orange traffic cone. Yes, friends, it is Cone Season again–that grand annual tradition where highways transform into obstacle courses, lanes vanish into the ether, and men and women in neon vests appear at random, wielding signs of unknowable intent.

While Cone Season is inconvenient for the motoring public, for those brave souls who toil under the desert sun, dodging wayward sedans and distracted drivers–it’s a matter of life and death. Thus, one noble legislator from Southern Nevada has taken up the cause of these unsung heroes, proposing a bold and innovative solution: More cameras.

Assemblymember Selena Torres-Fossett, the guiding spirit behind Assembly Bill 402, believes that Nevada’s work zones needn’t more caution nor common sense but a good old-fashioned digital eye—ever watchful, ever unblinking. Hidden–the cameras will capture when an unsuspecting driver speeds through a construction zone.

The authorities will review the photographic evidence. Should the blurry specter of a guilty party emerge from the grainy abyss, a citation will get dispatched to the registered owner—no questions asked–except, of course, for the name and address of any alternative suspects. Lest you fear the advent of a Big Brother-esque surveillance state, rest assured–the camera will not reveal faces—only license plates.

And if you were not the one driving, you will have the opportunity to clear your good name by dutifully informing on the true culprit, be it a friend, relative, or hapless acquaintance who borrowed your car in good faith. Ain’t that justice?

Of course, should a flesh-and-blood law officer catch you in the act of recklessly careening through a work zone, you will get the full force of traditional penalties—steep fines, potential jail time, and a deep sense of regret. But rest easy, dear driver, for the watchful cones will ensure that automated citations remain a civil infraction, free from pesky demerit points.

Assembly Bill 402 now awaits its grand debut before the Assembly Growth and Infrastructure Committee, where it will get discussed, debated, and perhaps even met with a few raised eyebrows. The date remains undecided, but one thing is sure–more cameras are coming, the cones are watching, and Cone Season shall never be the same again.

The Nevada Legislature has before it a bill that aims to do what the Almighty Himself might struggle with—protect veterans from swindlers and grant them a few more well-earned benefits, assuming the state’s purse strings can bear the strain. Assembly Bill 145, proposed by two veterans who now pass their days making laws instead of dodging bullets, seeks to fortify the lives of Nevada’s former warriors, provided it can navigate the legislative thicket without being whittled down to a shadow of its former self.

Assemblymember Reuben D’Silva, a man who left the better part of his left arm in Fallujah, and Assemblymember Ken Gray, a fellow veteran, have taken it upon themselves to champion the cause. They assure their colleagues in the Legislature of full support for the bill, a rare moment of unity in a house more likely to squabble than a yard full of hungry chickens.

“This bill is a mighty stride toward honoring our veterans not just with words, but with action,” said D’Silva, whose personal history with the perils of war lends his words a weight beyond mere politics. However, in a nod to fiscal reality, the bill’s latest draft has cast aside a provision that would have allowed spouses of veterans free burials in military cemeteries—an act of belt-tightening justified by an estimated cost between $600,000 and $2 million. The lawmakers, well-versed in the art of compromise, bowed to financial constraints while keeping the rest of the bill intact.

The proposed law would mandate a veteran hiring program and a peer mentor initiative securing jobs and support for those who traded combat boots for civilian shoes, which, if we are honest, are often less comfortable. Furthermore, AB 145 seeks to do away with those unsavory creatures known as “claims sharks,” the kind of folks who would sell you a ticket to your funeral and charge extra for the privilege. These opportunists prey upon veterans seeking benefits, promising assistance while delivering little more than empty pockets and frustration.

The bill insists that only individuals recognized by the Veterans Affairs Department may handle veterans’ legal claims, ending the meddling of those who have no business profiting from another’s sacrifice.

Fred Wagar, a supporter of the bill, said, “A person shall not prepare, present, prosecute, advise, or assist in any claim before the United States Department of Veterans Affairs or the Department of Defense unless they have been recognized or accredited to do so.”

Whether the bill will sail through the Legislature or get tripped up by the usual bureaucratic bumbling remains to be seen. But for now, Nevada’s veterans can take comfort in knowing that at least a few of their own are fighting this battle—not with rifles and bayonets, but with ink and lawbooks.

Authorities in Arizona are searching for a family of three who vanished while traveling from the Grand Canyon to Las Vegas earlier this month.

According to the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office, Jiyeon Lee, 23, Taehee Kim, 69, and Junghee Kim, 64, were on vacation, driving a white 2024 BMW rental car with a California license plate 9KHN768 westbound on Interstate 40. GPS data indicates their vehicle was recorded on the highway at 3:27 p.m. on March 13, but they have not been seen or heard from since.

On the same day they went missing, a deadly multi-vehicle crash occurred on I-40 near Williams, Arizona, amid winter storm conditions. The Arizona Department of Public Safety reported that 22 vehicles were involved in the accident, including 13 passenger cars and five commercial trucks. Two people died, and 16 others received medical care at a local hospital.

Authorities have not determined whether the missing family was involved in the crash. “Law enforcement is aware of the large multi-vehicle accident that occurred on I-40 on this day; however, it is not known if this vehicle was involved in the accident,” the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office stated in a news release.

Officials urge anyone with information about the family’s whereabouts to contact the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office at 928-774-4523.

No regrets. That’s what Steve Sisolak says now. No second thoughts, no looking back, no sleepless nights over the businesses shuttered, the lives upended, the jobs erased like chalk on a sidewalk before a storm. “I wouldn’t change anything,” he tells reporters–as if that settles it–as if that made it true.

But Nevada remembers. The casinos might have flickered back to life, and the traps might hum again with tourists clutching watered-down drinks, but outside that neon glow, the scars remain. The boarded-up storefronts, the homes too expensive for the people who built this state, the kids who lost years they’ll never get back.

Sisolak ruled like a man who mistook himself for a king. Emergency powers meant to last days stretched into months, then years.

A flick of his pen decided who was “essential” and collateral damage. Churches sat empty while blackjack tables filled up.

Kids were muzzled with masks long after the science wobbled. And when the people cried foul and questioned the constitutionality of it all, Sisolak didn’t even flinch.

He hitched Nevada’s wagon to California’s fate, signing onto the Western States Pact like a junior partner in a doomed business venture. Newsom cracked the whip, and Sisolak followed suit. Zero fucking consideration for Nevada’s unique economy, no acknowledgment that Vegas and Reno weren’t just San Francisco with slot machines.

And then came the unemployment crisis, a disaster of his own making. Thousands were out of work overnight, drowning in paperwork and bureaucratic sludge while the state’s broken system coughed and sputtered. “We never anticipated this much demand,” he said as if the economic collapse was some act of God, not the direct result of his executive orders. The man who pulled the plug stood over the wreckage, shaking his head, gloating at all the darkness.

Nevada’s unemployment hit 28.2 percent, the highest in the nation. While locals scraped by, buyers from locked-down California swept in, driving housing prices to absurd heights. A state built on affordable living suddenly had its people priced out. The schools, the mental health system, the police—everything buckled under the weight of his decisions.

And when it came time to jab the population into compliance, Sisolak didn’t just push—the bastard sweetened the deal. He offered lotteries, stadium mandates, and “shots for raffle tickets” schemes that felt more like desperation than public health policy.

And then there was the mystery of the Chinese COVID tests—what happened to those? Nevada never quite got an answer.

But in the end, it wasn’t the critics, the scholars, or the ruined small business owners who delivered the final verdict. It was the voters.

In 2022, Nevada was the only state in the country to flip its governor’s mansion from blue to red. The message was clear–Sisolak could stand by his decisions all he wanted, but the people wouldn’t stand by him.

Sisolak gambled, even doubled down, but when the cards showed, he lost. No regrets? Maybe not for him.

But Nevada ain’t fucking forgetting.

A Mother’s Fight Against the System

The military. It’s supposed to be about honor, discipline, and protecting the freedoms we all take for granted. But what happens when the system turns on its own? When the people sworn to defend the Constitution suddenly find themselves abandoned, chewed up, and spit out by the machine?

Felicia Cavanagh knows that feeling too well. March 4 marked two years since the worst day of her life. Two years since her daughter, Sgt. First Class Allison Baile

y was swallowed whole by the Nevada National Guard’s disciplinary process, chewed up, and left for dead.

“There are no words … losing a child. There are no words,” Cavanagh said.

Bailey, a 34-year-old mother of two, had been a model soldier. Then, she wasn’t.

Then, she got accused of harassment. Then, she was out.

Six weeks later, her body gave out—her heart and lungs failed. Seventeen years of service, and in the end, it counted for nothing.

At her funeral, Cavanagh promised, “I will pursue the truth … no matter how long it takes.”

And she has.

She’s been fighting since 2023. Not for herself—her daughter is gone.

But for every guard member who still wears the uniform, who might one day find themselves crushed under the same bureaucratic boot. She found an ally in Nevada Senator Lisa Krasner, who agreed to push Senate Bill 95.

The bill is simple. It closes a loophole.

It gives Nevada National Guard members the right to demand a court-martial instead of being railroaded through the Guard’s internal disciplinary process—where the military gets to play judge, jury, and executioner. Nevada is one of only six states where guardsmen don’t have this right.

Bailey knew what was happening to her was wrong. In 2020, she tried to blow the whistle on what she called a toxic, bullying environment in her unit. But instead of fixing the problem, the Guard turned the problem into her.

They hit her with the military discipline’s internal kangaroo court. An Article 15

A couple of dozen accusations. “Pattern of misconduct,” they called it.

Inappropriate relationships, disobeying orders, late for muster. It was a hit list.

She fought back. She made a video diary and sent clips to her mother.

“The last video she sent me literally was, ‘Mom, I’m going to spend the rest of my life working on this because it’s wrong.’”

But she didn’t have a lifetime to give.

Sexually assaulted by another soldier, Bailey filed a complaint. It went nowhere. The investigation was closed–“insufficient evidence,” they said.

But the disciplinary process against her? That one went all the way. She was demoted, kicked out, and slapped with an “Other than Honorable” discharge.

Dr. Dwight Stirling, a former JAG officer, wasn’t surprised. He’s seen it before.

“The Nevada National Guard can simply predetermine the winner and the loser,” he said. “Then they can write a script that will manipulate the system in a way to get to that outcome.”

Chris Tinsman, Bailey’s assigned military attorney, agreed.

“Not having a process for soldiers to have their day in court is just unacceptable on a constitutional level.”

The Guard, of course, says Bailey got “due process.” Claiming she had a fair shake.

Krasner isn’t buying it.

“This is not equal justice when a member of the National Guard does not have the ability to get a full and fair hearing.”

She’s pushing forward with SB 95, but the Guard isn’t supporting the bill. They say they’re “not for or against it,” but they made sure to attach a price tag—$1.16 million a year.

“Even one court-martial drains resources from the state,” they said in an email.

So now the argument isn’t whether guardsmen deserve due process but whether the state should pay for it. The money, they say, could go to firefighting, disaster relief, and other emergency needs.

Justice, it seems, is just too damn expensive.

But then there’s Dana Grigg, a retired NV Guard JAG officer, calling bullshit on the fiscal note. That the numbers don’t add up, that the Guard is inflating costs–misrepresenting facts.

Why? Maybe because they like things the way they are. And because giving soldiers rights means giving up a little power.

The Nevada National Guard says it hasn’t had a court-martial in nearly 30 years. From 2015 to 2019, when soldiers had the right to request one, not a single one was held.

So why fight so hard against giving them the option now? What are they so afraid of?

Maybe it’s the same thing Bailey feared—a whole system rigged, and the people in charge don’t want accountability. Those who speak up and fight back will be left broken.

Felicia Cavanagh’s not broken yet. She’s still fighting and won’t stop.

Because justice, no matter the fucking cost, is worth more than silence.

And His Apostle of Common Sense

It was a spectacle of democracy, or at least the latest attempt at it, when Vermont’s firebrand, Sen. Bernie Sanders, descended upon North Las Vegas with his faithful disciple, New York Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Together, they preached the old-time religion of the common folk against the golden idols of billionaire-backed politics.

The faithful gathered by the thousands at Craig Ranch Regional Park, waiting for hours in the desert sun, their patience stretching as long as the line, which twisted and turned like a snake looking for shade. If ever a revival had the fervor of a camp meeting, this was it.

As the crowd swelled, Democratic Congressman Steven Horsford took to the stage first, warming up the congregation with the familiar gospel of working-class unity. “Bernie knows,” he declared, “as you all do when working people stand together, we have the power to change everything.”

Then came Ocasio-Cortez, known to friend and foe alike as “AOC,” with a sermon against the high priests of finance. “I believe that when a person gets sick, they shouldn’t go bankrupt in the wealthiest country in the history of the world. Common sense,” she proclaimed.

She turned her fire upon the omnipresent Elon Musk, accusing him of taking over the federal government, like another of his vanity projects. “We must get big money out of politics and make clear that our country is not for sale.”

Then, the main attraction—Brother Bernie himself, the shaggy-haired prophet from the Green Mountains, rose to deliver his message with all the subtlety of a lightning strike. “My friends,” he thundered, “it is no great secret that our government is way out of touch with the needs of working families.”

He cast no distinction between the two parties, calling them both beholden to the moneychangers in the political temple. “It’s important to know that we are not going to make the changes we need so long as we continue to have a corrupt campaign finance system.”

The crowd roared, for the words were as familiar as an old hymn, but still, they rang true.

Of course, no sermon goes unanswered. The National Republican Congressional Committee, ever the straight-laced deacons of the opposition, dismissed the affair as mere stagecraft, a sideshow rather than a serious effort to save the soul of the nation. “We’ve seen this stunt before,” scoffed NRCC Spokesman Christian Martinez, calling it nothing more than “billionaire-funded activists staging phony protests to manufacture outrage.”

And so, the battle lines are drawn again, the old war between money and men, idealists and pragmatists, dreamers and cynics. The people of Nevada—many of whom have sworn allegiance to neither party—will have their say soon enough.

Until then, the revival marches on.

The kitchen smelled of spilled beer and old tobacco. My grandfather sat at the table, a chipped mug in his hands, staring at nothing. I had asked him about the war. He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he coughed—a deep, rattling cough that seemed to start in his stomach and claw its way up his throat. He turned his head, pressing a fist to his mouth. The cough built, raw and wet, until he hacked up something thick.

With a grimace, he pushed back from the table, chair scraping against the linoleum. He shuffled to the sink and spat, turning the faucet on to wash it away.

“Damn lungs never were the same,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Taking a breath, he returned to the table, settling in with a sigh. “Alright, you wanted to know about the war. I’ll tell you. But you listen closely. And don’t you go thinking any of it was glorious.”

He took a sip of beer, his hands shaking just slightly. Then he began.

“The town smelled of rain and coal smoke. There was a charge in the air, the kind that comes before a storm. The war was coming, and we felt it. We were young, stupid, full of pride. The posters told us it would be an adventure, and we believed them. So we drank our beer, slapped each other on the back, and signed our names. All of us together. It seemed right.”

He paused, rolling his thumb over the rim of his cup. “The train took us away, past the fields and homes. The brass band played. Mothers wept. Fathers shook our hands like men already grieving. We waved. We laughed. We told ourselves we’d be back by Christmas.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “The trenches were not what we expected. We had thought of glory. Instead, we found mud. Deep, sucking mud that filled our boots and turned our feet raw. The rats were as big as cats and bolder than thieves. Lice crawled in our clothes. The shells never stopped. Even when they did, we heard them in our heads. We got used to it. A man could get used to anything.”

He set the cup down. His fingers drummed the table once, twice. “Then came the gas.”

He didn’t look at me when he said it. His voice had dropped lower, quieter. “It was late in the day, the sky already the color of rust. A smell like rotting eggs, sharp like bleach. Someone shouted. ‘Gas! Gas! Gas!’ We fumbled with our masks. Hands shook. Some were too slow. The gas was thick, yellow, curling low to the ground. It clung to the earth, to our skin. It burned. Eyes swelled shut. Lungs filled with fire.”

His breath hitched, and for a second, I thought he might start coughing again. But he swallowed hard and went on.

“I got my mask on but too late. I had breathed it in. It was agony. A thousand knives in my chest. Around me, men dropped. Robert clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging. He fell. The gas swallowed him. I heard him choking. He reached for me, but I couldn’t help. There was nothing to do but wait, crouched in that hell, listening to men die.”

He rubbed his forehead, eyes closed. “When it cleared, we moved the bodies. Robert was heavy. He did not look like he had suffered. Some men looked peaceful. Others did not. We dug fast. The ground was soft, and the graves were shallow. There was no time for prayers. I said one anyway.”

I didn’t move. I hardly breathed as my grandpa kept going.

“The coughing didn’t stop. For weeks after, we coughed until our ribs ached. Some men never breathed right again. Others died slow, drowning in their own blood. My lungs burned. They burned for months.”

He looked at me then. His eyes, once sharp, were soft with age but still held the weight of things I couldn’t begin to understand. “We had thought war would make us men. It made us something else. Hollow. Empty. I left part of myself in that trench. The rest of me carried on.”

His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “When I came home, there was no band, no cheering crowd. Just a quiet town and a mother who held me like she would never let go. I told her I was fine. She knew I was lying.”

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “I lived. Robert did not. Some nights I still hear him gasping for air. Some nights, I still wake up choking, reaching for a mask that isn’t there.”

He picked up his cup again but didn’t drink. “One day, I will see him again. Maybe then I will find peace.”

Silence stretched between us. The clock ticked on the wall. I swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. Eventually, he just nodded to himself, as if closing a door on an old room, and took a slow sip of beer.

I never asked him about the war again–a mistake I often regret.

The Fine Craft of Wage Theft

If there’s one thing the great state of Nevada knows how to do, it’s separate a man from his money. From the clinking roulette wheels of Reno to the dusty poker tables in small-town saloons, fortune has always been a fickle friend in these parts. But now, thanks to a new report from Rutgers University’s Workplace Justice Lab, we learn that the house edge isn’t in the casinos—it’s in the payroll departments of employers shortchanging their employees $122.8 million a year.

Yes, you read that right.

In a state where slot machines hum a never-ending lullaby of luck and loss, the real jackpot is quietly skimmed off the wages of nearly 40,000 Nevadans, cheated out of an average of $3,132 annually. Over the last two decades, that adds up to a staggering $2.4 billion—enough to build a golden palace of ill-gotten gains for the fine folks who believe a fair day’s pay is whatever they feel like giving.

You might think, “Surely this sort of thing is rare, an occasional miscalculation, a rounding error in the grand scheme of commerce.”

Alas, dear reader, it is not. The average employee in Nevada has a 3.4 percent chance of being underpaid.

Take, for instance, personal service employees—those who cut your hair, polish your nails, and press your shirts so you don’t look like you just emerged from a prolonged nap under a bridge. These folks are three times as likely to be underpaid.

Farmhands and food service employees, who quite literally put food on our tables, also get shorted at double and triple the rate of the average Nevadan. And then we have domestic workers—housekeepers, nannies, caregivers—the quiet workforce that keeps homes running smoothly.

They stand a fivefold chance of being paid less than the legally mandated minimum wage–as if working in someone’s private home entitles their employer to private rules regarding compensation.

If you’re wondering how such a brazen practice flourishes, look no further than the history books. When enacting Social Security, certain members of Congress dug in their heels, refusing to extend protections to domestic and farm workers. That fine tradition of selective fairness lives on today, with wage theft disproportionately affecting women of color, non-citizens, and those who dare to enter the workforce without a high school diploma.

You may ask, “What’s being done about it?”

Well, the Office of the Labor Commissioner (OLC) is on the case—with each investigator carrying an average of 113 cases a month, their pursuit of justice is about as swift as a three-legged mule pulling a stagecoach uphill. With enforcement resources spread thin and employers well aware that detection is unlikely, the incentive to pay employees fairly dwindles proportionally to ease, with which they can get away.

And so, the cycle continues. Businesses that fail to register with the state slip through the cracks, employees fear retaliation and remain silent, and those who come forward get met with a system more eager to close cases quickly than to dig deep into systemic abuses. Meanwhile, the $12 minimum wage remains a distant dream for thousands, even as research finds that a Nevadan needs $23.85 an hour to keep their head above financial water.

But fear not, for there is a glimmer of hope!

Nevada’s Secretary of State, Cisco Aguilar, has only just discovered the extent of this swindle—an astonishing feat of obliviousness, given that it’s been happening under his nose since taking office. Now, he vows to work alongside the Attorney General to address the problem. Whether this results in meaningful action or a flurry of strongly worded memos remains to be seen.

In other states, officials are teaming up with tax collectors, reasoning—quite sensibly—that a business willing to cheat its workers is probably just as willing to cheat the government. It turns out that a well-aimed tax audit works wonders.

So what’s the lesson here? In Nevada, wage theft is not a bug in the system—it is the system.

The house always wins, and in this particular game, the dealer is the employer who’s mastered the fine art of picking employees’ pockets with a sleight of hand that puts the best Vegas magician to shame.

Nevada’s Costly Year in Fraud

Nevada consumers, ever the trusting sort, managed to part ways with more than $138 million in 2024, a generous donation to the ever-thriving industry of fraud, says the Federal Trade Commission. The FTC, that diligent guardian of the public purse–or at least an observer of its depletion–received a staggering 24,331 fraud reports from Nevada alone, with victims waving goodbye to an average of $519 per case—enough for a decent steak dinner in Virginia City, if not a few rounds at the tables.

These figures, courtesy of the FTC’s Consumer Sentinel Network, were compiled from a veritable who’s who of consumer protection outfits, including law enforcement, the Better Business Bureau, and other watchdogs that bark but, alas, do not always bite in time. If one includes all grievances—identity theft, debt collection woes, and general financial chicanery—the total number of complaints from Nevada consumers ballooned to 73,271.

And lest Nevadans feel uniquely fleeced, take heart—across this great land, 2.6 million Americans joined the exclusive club of the swindled, collectively losing a record-breaking $12.5 billion in 2024, a 25 percent increase over 2023. Investment scams proved the most lucrative for the unscrupulous, siphoning off $5.7 billion nationwide, while imposters—ever the charming rogues—made off with $2.95 billion.

So, as another year dawns, the lesson remains the same: if a deal seems too good to be true, rest assured, it is—and somewhere, a fraudster is already spending your hard-earned cash.