I had been stuck at that damn camp since my parents had sold me there; hope they enjoyed the fucking "beef steak" (it wasn't beef). Sure my hands were all right turning the cranks on the hand generator and fixing all the small problems the raiders didn't want to, but I really just didn't like the environ. Too many orders, not enough choices, and if your friends slacked you either got to eat them or starve. One grunt that was not so good with his hands had found a couple abandoned accordions in a hauler; he wanted to own less shit, I wanted to use my hands, we figured something out.

I learned to play and folks started giving me extra rations they didn't want; maybe the rations were someone they knew, but it was fat on my belly.

After a particularly banal day tending the cactus at the edge of camp, everyone had settled and only the guard was awake. I sauntered up nonchalant with my nice wheeled cart and my accordion boxes on top.

I had learned several of his favorite tunes from him humming them away and me making up shit to fill in the gaps left by years without them presented to the ears. The guard slowly, but surely, slumped in his chair as confidence and relaxation enveloped him. I pulled the well-oiled wheels on my dolly of life away from that camp and never looked back.

I have made several homes since, but I will never be stuck again. I am the peddler of escapism. It feels good, when I can feel. I feel like I have left bits of my soul across the waste; maybe I have found some too. I find myself playing songs I don't know where are from, where are going, I don't know their story before you do. Let's listen to the lost stories of those that are snacks and rib armor on our backs.