Kiwirrkurra was a collection of one-story buildings, a dozen at the most, unpainted, a patchwork of colors coming from the cast-off wood and scrap particle board that had been given to the residents by the resettlement commission. They’d parked half a mile away and the going was slow in the suits, but they could see the structures that dotted the horizon from here. They turned and started the walk into town. “Better get started while we can still see,” he said. Their jeep had kicked up a massive fantail of dust and the prevailing winds were blowing their way, which meant a few hundred kilometers’ worth of sediment was airborne and swirling toward them. Roberto turned and looked behind them, at the vast expanse of desert they had just crossed.
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