It's bright and hot on a totally different axis than Albuquerque—the heat clingy and oppressive, the lights a frenzy of color. The words culture shock keep flashing in his mind like another neon sign, but he's not sure what to do with them. At the very least, it couldn't be less like the desert.

“What? Kim.” He stops where he is, much to the annoyance of six to ten people in their vicinity. Swings their hands a little, playfully. “You go to the nearest pachinko joint.” He counts each successive step off on his fingers, beginning with his thumb. “You ask for the ichiban. You shake him down for twenty-five bucks in protection money, then Cameron Mitchell shows up and punches you through a wall.”

He smiles to himself, cheered by the thought, the familiarity of this despite everything: talking movies together. Good old Cameron Mitchell.