Robert, a desert squatter in his mid-twenties, approached the small group of truckers gathered around three grills. Meat sizzled over the flames.

"This is a private party," said a retired state-trooper-turned-trucker, clean-shaven excluding an immaculate white mustache.

Robert made his way back to the Circle K. He remained slumped against the brick wall until the sun set, then wandered off into the desert.