Thick mud walls and personal solar panels heavily chained to the roof, looking like mental patients in danger of escape. Old-school enviro design with a juniper-beam shade porch, protected by a sagging blue-and-gold rubberized tarp that looked as if it had been stolen from an old Comic-Con, from back when Phoenix had still managed to put on real conventions. A beat-up Ford was parked at an odd angle across the front yard, rusted wheel wells and jacked-up tires, a beast of a truck, looking as if it had done about a million desert miles and still wanted to road-warrior its way straight out of Hell. A couple of chickens scattered, clucking, ahead of Angel’s Tesla as he pulled to a stop. He climbed out and leaned against the car. Most of the other properties around the journo’s home were protected by cinder-block walls, hiding whatever was behind them from prying eyes. Farther down the alley, Angel thought he spied the tin-and-chipboard shacks and Kelty tents of a squatter camp. He wondered if someone had managed to drill into some old Phoenix water main.
