Tombstone, April 2020

You walk down the wooden sidewalk with your husband. His steps are slow, hesitant. Boards creak underfoot. When you round the corner, a woman springs out of a restaurant. “We’re open!” She sounds hopeful, yet desperate.

She means takeout, since it’s illegal to dine in a restaurant. The iconic bars sport heavy padlocks. Big Nose Kate’s. Doc Holliday’s. The Four Deuces Saloon. Closed indefinitely, until owners get the all-clear.

The main street is empty, except for a photographer with a fancy setup. He’s standing in the middle, snapping away. His apparatus looks like a mechanical praying mantis.

You think of old Warner Brothers cartoons. Tumbleweeds roll down the street like spiked bowling balls. The desert is a harsh and unrelenting place, but roadrunners always rise again.

Usually, Tombstone’s streets overflow with gunslinging cowboys, searching for tourist dollars. “Goin’ to the gunfight today?” they snarl.

If you say “no”, they follow you down the street. “You sure?” Insistent, like they might shoot if you say no. “Two PM. Watch them fall like they did in 1881.”

Death isn’t a kitschy joke anymore. It’s a real possibility. Everyone’s huddled indoors like the cavalry might appear at any moment. You take a deep breath of the dusty air and snap a cellphone photo of an overhead sign. “Ghosts and Legends.” Ominous shadows stretch into the distance.

Your husband’s cancer treatment begins tomorrow. Still, you feel oddly peaceful. Tombstone has never been so quiet. You clasp your husband’s hand and keep walking.

Leah Mueller is everywhere and nowhere. Her work is published across the internet and in print.