Only cement steps remain to what used to be houses. You walk up one flight of them and wade through the grasses and flowers. You're crouching in the kitchen, warming your hands at the fire. In the other room your two children are playing. You wonder if they realize how insubstantial the rush matting underneath them, the stucco walls surrounding them, the timbered ceiling above them are. From the loudspeaker a voice tells you about an old lady who is missing, wandered off to look for her grandfather.
In another lot, across many intervening lots, a man in a purple sweatshirt with a white shock of hair plays with his dogs. They roll over in the tall grasses, nipping and jumping on one another. The man stares off dreamily at the old mine works. The sun presses down on the hillside. All the purples turn red.