Ain't Talkin'

Further into the city Roche came to a cross of two main roads. The 395 and the 50 parted ways at Carson City’s south end, beyond the final rows of dilapidated buildings and brick skeletons.

Signs for the 50 were coupled with signs for Lake Tahoe. Roche could have taken the 395 straight south and then picked his way back west just as easily as anything, but he hadn’t seen the lake in some years, and there was an old witcher woman who used to live on the steppes by the lake’s southern edge who made a vodka that’d flatten you right out.

It wasn’t much of a choice.

Roche turned his bay mare with the single white fetlock down the 50 towards Lake Tahoe.