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At the bar, another fucking pilot, another plane grounded, and Ranger Ranger pauses, girl at his elbow. Fresh out of the truck, they've made it up the far side of the playa, somewhere northeast.

"No fuel... no fucking fuel..." and Ranger Ranger knows, has to pause for a moment. Another dreamer fetched up on the shore of the dead lake.

"I didn't know," the girl begins, stops. Finishes, reluctantly "Didn't know there were still any planes in the air."

"Might not be."

Pilot is head down, sobbing over his whiskey, a couple technicians bracing him up at the stool. "What's his story?" Ranger Ranger is asking the barkeep. Flashes two fingers, glances at the girl, at Hanna. She nods, trying not to look at the other end of the bar too obviously.

"In today. Engine's blown anyway," barkeep shrugs. "Fuel went off a week ago. Someone told him he'd find the extra tank here - bad luck." He uncorks the well, pours them each a shot in their dusty mugs, nods appreciatively. "Fuel's thin all over. Planes, trucks. Had issues with thieves, for the stuff being refined up at Burn City. Never mind it's no good for them."

"Getting desperate, then."

"Few of them. We sent a call to the Ranch." barkeep hesitates then, pours a little bit more. Hanna's sliding her way towards the old jukebox - or the door. "Wouldn't mind some company till more of you show up."

Ranger Ranger nods, glances at the other end of the bar. The pilot's buddies have him, are moving off towards the john - or the drunk tank. "Think we can do that."

Hanna, at the door, a hesitant, wary look. He shrugs, helpless. All around them, the locals stick to their beer, pretending not to see him the girl, or the singleton canteen left on the bar, unstickered, unmarked, by a man who'd come, unwillingly, to Anarchy.