No Happy Endings  Everyone calls me Hazard.  It isn't my name,
but people have been calling me that for so long it might as
well be. When I first met her and she asked me what my name was,
I told it was Hazard, but now I wish I hadn't. I never told her
what my real name was, but I suppose it doesn't matter much.
Sitting holed up with her, being as quiet as we can, it gives me
time to think on this kind of stuff. Out in the wasteland
there's just no time for idle thoughts like these. She uses some
fancy words when she talks about it, like 'arid' and 'desolate',
but the best word I have for it is 'warzone', full of stuff
that'll kill you and eat you, and not always in that order. You
have to pay attention out there, look for colors that aren't
brown or gray, look for movement that isn't from the heat rising
off the rocks. If you don't, you end up dead, and that's just
the way it is. They say the war happened two hundred some-odd
years ago, but I guess it's still going on.  I guess war never
changes.  She shive