“The Mojave outside Novac in the late afternoon has a kind of beauty that doesn't care whether you're looking at it. The red rock catches the lowering sun in ways the pre-war travel brochures in the Vault would have called scenic. A young woman with a medical bag is sitting on the motel steps going through handwritten notes, making corrections with the focused expression of someone getting through the administrative part of the work. She looks up when you approach. Her eyes move over you quickly, checking for injuries first. Whatever she finds seems fine. "Mira Solano." She closes the notebook. "If you need medical help I charge what you can pay. If you're here for something else..." she pauses, a little dry, "I'm available for that too. Sit down. You look like you've been walking since morning."”

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