The Lost Pearl of the Mojave – Episode 8: Lefty’s Folly

SCREEN OVERLAY: “OASIS PALMS 1952”

A bright orange glow flickers in the distance, illuminating the desert skyline. Thick, black smoke billows into the night sky, stretching toward the stars. The sound of crackling flames and collapsing timber echoes through the valley.

From the hilltop, we see the Oasis Palms Hotel and Resort engulfed in flames. The once-proud structure collapses piece by piece, its skeletal remains swallowed by fire.

In the foreground, perched just below the hill, stands Lefty’s Mobil Station. The neon sign flickers, casting a faint red glow on the desert floor.

LEFTY SMITH stands in the open, his hands in his pockets, silhouetted against the blaze. His expression is unreadable—calm, reflective, perhaps even expectant.

Behind him, MOLLY, now a young woman, steps forward, her eyes wide in shock. Curtis and Mary Smith follow, stopping near Lefty, their faces lit by the inferno.

A piece of the hotel’s grand entrance collapses, sending sparks into the sky. The glow of the fire reflects in Lefty’s steely eyes.

Lefty breathes in deeply, exhaling slow. He finally speaks—low, measured.

Molly looks at him, her expression shifting—uncertainty creeping in.

Lefty finally turns, smirking just enough to be noticed.

Silence hangs between them as the fire consumes what’s left of Oasis Palms Hotel. In the distance, a faint siren wails, but it’s already too late.

The car wobbles slightly as he takes a turn a little too fast. A Route 66 sign is seen out the window. Molly clutches the dashboard.

Lefty eases off the gas, but only slightly. The neon lights of Barstow Community Hospital shimmer in the distance.

Molly exhales through the pain, eyes fluttering.

Lefty lets out a breathless chuckle, shifting gears, pushing forward as the hospital looms closer.

Molly lies on a hospital bed, sweat beading on her forehead, gripping the sheets tightly. A NURSE dabs her brow, while the DOCTOR, a seasoned man in his fifties, stands at the foot of the bed.

Molly lets out a deep breath and pushes with all her strength. A newborn CRIES. The doctor gently lifts the baby, handing it to the nurse.

Molly leans back, exhausted but beaming, as she hears her child cry for the first time.

The nurse hands her the baby.

Molly cradles the tiny newborn, looking into his fierce little eyes.

A brief moment of peace. Then—

Molly frowns in confusion.

Molly’s eyes widen.

The doctor nods.

Molly lets out a deep groan, squeezing the nurse’s hand. A final push. A second CRY fills the room. The nurse carefully takes the newborn, smiling as she looks at the clock.

Molly exhales, exhausted but smiling, holding both babies now. A little 

The nurse nods.

Lefty paces nervously, wringing his hands. A DOCTOR steps out into the room.

Lefty steps forward, tense.

Lefty blinks. Processing. Then—his face lights up.

The men in the waiting room chuckle, offering congratulatory pats on the back. Lefty reaches into his coat, pulling out a bundle of cigars.

The room erupts in laughter and cheers.

• EXT. VICTORY CAFÉ – DAY
  The café’s sign is replaced with a new, retro-style neon sign reading “HotRod Diner.”​ Inside, booths are reupholstered in red vinyl, and vintage car memorabilia adorns the walls.​
• INT. SCOOTER’S SALOON – NIGHT
  The old officers club tables and chairs are removed and replaced with booths and high-top bar tables with stools. A shiny jukebox is installed in the corner, glowing with colorful lights.​ Patrons gather around pinball machines, the sounds of flippers and bells adding to the lively ambiance. 
• EXT. LAND BEHIND HOTROD DINER – DAY
  Construction crews break ground, erecting the iconic A&W drive-in restaurant, complete with carhop service stations.​ A giant lighted rotating A&W mug is hoisted atop a tall pole, becoming a beacon for travelers.​

OVERLAY: “Two Years Later 1948”

The scent of shaving cream and pipe tobacco lingers in the air. The weekly gathering of Oasis Palms’ businessmen leans back in their chairs, sipping coffee, discussing the latest town developments.

LEFTY lounges in the barber chair, one boot propped on the footrest, rolling a silver dollar over his knuckles.

Lefty lets the words hang in the air, thoughtful. He reaches for a dog-eared copy of Variety, left behind by an out-of-town customer.

His eyes pause on an article headlined “Disney’s ‘Mickey Mouse Park’ Rumors Stir Excitement”. The story speculates on Walt Disney’s growing interest in creating a family-friendly attraction—one inspired by his boyhood love of trains.

He taps the page, an idea forming.

The businessmen lean in, intrigued.

Lefty folds up the magazine, tapping it against his palm.

The room buzzes with curiosity as Lefty leans back, a smile creeping across his face.

OVERLAY: “Two Years Later 1950”

• EXT. MAIN STREET – DAY
  An old storefront next to the barber shop is transformed into an ice cream parlor, “Kylen’s Ice Cream” featuring a striped awning and outdoor seating and a giant lighted Ice Cream Cone on the roof.​ Families gather outside, children enjoying ice cream cones.​
• INT. FAST EDDIE’S POOL HALL – NIGHT
  News signs are hung, the interior is renovated with polished wood floors, new pool tables, and a freshly stocked bar.​ Patrons enjoy games in a lively atmosphere, the clinking of billiard balls and laughter filling the air.
• EXT. ROUTE 66 – DAY
  Cars exit off Route 66, drawn by billboards advertising Oasis Palms’ new attractions. Tourists with cameras explore the town, capturing memories with their families against the backdrop of its renewed charm.

OVERLAY: “Two Years Later 1952”

The weekly gathering of Oasis Palms’ businessmen is in full swing. Curtis Smith, Don the barber, and a handful of other local shop owners lounge in their usual seats—some in the barber chairs, others perched on the wooden benches near the checkerboard table. The air is thick with cigar smoke, the scent of hair tonic and old leather lingering.

Hattie Mae Johnson pours coffee from a well-worn pot, listening with a smirk as the men gossip while pretending to discuss the town’s latest developments.

The bell over the door jingles. Lefty Smith strides in, looking charged with excitement, a rolled-up blueprint under his arm.

The men glance up, half-curious, half-weary. Curtis stares with cream on his face as Don shaves him with a straight razor.

Scattered chuckles. Lefty doesn’t miss a beat.

Don the barber scratches his chin, conceding the point with a nod.

Lefty unrolls the blueprint across the counter, smoothing it flat with his palms.

A long silence. The men look at each other. Then—laughter.

He scans the room, seeing only skepticism.

Lefty hesitates, then shrugs.

A murmur of agreement ripples through the room.

Lefty grits his teeth, frustration creeping in.

Another beat of silence. Lefty glances at Hattie, but she just sips her coffee, unreadable. He exhales, rolls up his blueprint, and tucks it under his arm.

He nods once, then turns and walks out, the bell over the door jangling sharply behind him. Inside the shop, the skepticism lingers—but so does something else.

The wedding reception is in full swing. Crystal chandeliers sparkle over a grand ballroom filled with Los Angeles high society—
Hollywood producers, steel magnates, and the city’s elite. Champagne glasses clink, the big band orchestra swells, and the newlywed couple,
PETER 40 years old, and ELIZABETH DAVENPORT 28 years old, glide across the polished dance floor for their first waltz.

The crowd watches admiringly—but near the front, JACK SMITH a dashing 40-year-old, Peter’s best friend from college and now the best man stands apart. As Peter leads Elizabeth in a graceful turn, his gaze briefly lifts—to Jack. A flicker of something unspoken passes between them. Peter’s smile falters slightly before he recovers, twirling Elizabeth with effortless charm. Jack, ever composed, raises his champagne glass just enough for Peter to see. A silent acknowledgment. A private goodbye to something neither man could ever speak aloud. Then—the moment is gone. Peter dips Elizabeth, the crowd erupts in applause, and the orchestra crescendos.

A baby’s laughter fills the grand estate. Molly, a toddler with golden curls, is cradled in her mother Elizabeth’s arms. She sings a soft lullaby while rocking her daughter by the fireplace. Peter watches them from the doorway, smiling as if nothing in the world could touch them. A young Hattie the nanny stands quietly in the corner smiling.

A cold, gray afternoon. A biting wind sweeps through the cemetery, rustling the black veils of mourning women.
The scent of damp earth lingers as a fresh grave stands open beside an ornate marble mausoleum. A pastor recites the final rites, his somber Bible verses barely heard over the wind.

PETER DAVENPORT, older now, hollow-eyed and gaunt, stands alone, staring at the newly carved name: ELIZABETH HOLLOWAY DAVENPORT
1890 – 1922 “Forever Loved, Forever Missed.” Peter’s face is expressionless, but his hands tremble slightly at his sides.

In the distance, low coughing echoes from another mourner, a haunting reminder of the illness that took her. A few people exchange wary glances, shifting uncomfortably.

A hand rests on Peter’s shoulder—gentle, steadying. He turns. JACKSON SMITH, no longer the best man at a wedding, but his only friend at a funeral, meets his gaze with quiet understanding. At his side, wrapped in a tiny black coat, four-year-old MOLLY DAVENPORT clings to his leg—confused but silent. The wind howls, carrying away the pastor’s final words. Peter closes his eyes, just for a moment, swallowing grief that has no end.

A mahogany conference table. A stern-faced lawyer reads from a thick legal document. With PETER DAVENPORT and his best friend JACK SMITH in attendance.

Peter rubs his forehead, exhaling heavily. Across from him, Molly, too young to understand, clutches her mother’s lace-trimmed handkerchief—the same one she’d later give Lefty before he left for war. Jack, seated nearby, watches Peter, concern in his eyes.

Peter nods but looks uncertain, like a man who’s just realized how unprepared he is to raise a daughter and manage her fortune alone.

A warm fire crackles in a grand but lived-in parlor. The home is elegant yet full of life—framed photos on the mantle, a record player spinning jazz, books stacked high on every surface. A mahogany desk sits to the side, strewn with legal documents, property deeds, and bank statements. Seated behind it, PETER DAVENPORT, now in his early 30s, his sleeves rolled up, studies the figures with a furrowed brow. Across from him, JACK SMITH, now his life partner relaxed yet refined, scans a real estate ledger, a cigar resting between his fingers. On the floor, MOLLY, now six, is tucked against HATTIE MAE JOHNSON, who patiently helps her sound out words from a storybook.

Hattie smiles, giving her a squeeze.

Peter looks up and smiles at Molly with pure affection, setting down his pen.

• EXT. NAPA VALLEY – EARLY MORNING
  Jack surveys a sprawling vineyard, shaking hands with a winemaker over a new investment.
• EXT. SANTA BARBRA – MIDDAY
  Jack rides a horse with a rancher up a dirt road examining an expansive Cattle Ranch flanking lush Citrus Groves.
• EXT. ORANGE COUNTY – SUNSET
  A sandy spit of land is surveyed, blueprints in hand. A developer points to the future Newport Beach Lido Isle development.
• EXT. LOS ANGELES – SKID ROW – NIGHT
  While others suffer joblessness and stand in bread lines, the Davenport fortune grows.

SCREEN OVERLAY: “8 Years Later”

Peter 54 years old, falls ill with slow-moving consumption. Now frailer, sits in bed, hands trembling as he folds a silk handkerchief. Jack sits beside him, reading medical reports, his face carefully blank.

A beat. Jack clenches his jaw.

With the last of his strength, Peter squeezes Jack’s hand.

Jack swallows, then nods once. Peter closes his eyes, his grip on Jack’s hand tightening for a fleeting moment.

SCREEN OVERLAY: “8 Years Later”

The bedroom is dim, quiet. A breeze stirs the curtains. PETER, 54, gaunt from slow-moving consumption, sits propped up in bed. His hands tremble as he folds a silk handkerchief with slow, practiced care.

Beside him, JACK sits in a worn chair, holding medical reports he can no longer bear to read. His face is carefully composed, but his eyes betray the grief beneath.

A long beat. Jack clenches his jaw, staring at the papers but seeing none of the words.

Peter reaches for Jack’s hand, his grip weaker now, but still full of love.

Jack’s throat tightens. He nods once, wordless. Peter’s eyes close. His fingers tighten around Jack’s for one last moment—then fall still.

A dusty locomotive pulls into the tiny station, its whistle echoing across the vast Mojave Desert. As the doors hiss open, JACK SMITH, HATTIE MAE JOHNSON, and twelve-year-old MOLLY DAVENPORT step onto the wooden platform, their trunks and suitcases stacked beside them.

Molly shields her eyes from the brutal sun, taking in the quiet, barren town—weathered storefronts, a rundown saloon, a scattering of houses. But at the edge of town, something unexpected—a beautiful oasis, its palm trees and pink flowers reflected in the water. The train rumbles away, leaving only heatwaves and silence. Jack inhales deeply, as if breathing in old memories.

Hattie frowns slightly, shifting on her feet.

Molly rolls her eyes, half-listening, kicking at the dry dirt beneath her shoes.

Jack studies her, then nods slowly.

A small smile creeps onto Hattie’s face, a spark of confidence returning.

Jack glances across the street—an empty dirt lot, just across from the train station. Potential.

Molly looks between them, something unspoken in her eyes. As the three of them stand together—a found family, forging a future—the heat shimmers around them, blurring the past and the future into one.

A flatbed truck rumbles forward, carrying a prefabricated diner, dust billowing as it rolls through town. Locals gather, murmuring curiously as the stainless-steel structure is slowly lowered onto its foundation—a permanent home in a town that desperately needs something new. The chrome trim glints in the afternoon sun. The soft hum of excitement grows in the air. Jack stands back, arms crossed, watching Molly and Hattie take it all in. Above them, workers hoist a brand-new sign into place. The bold lettering catches the light as it swings into position: MOLLY’S DINER. Jack’s brow furrows as he smiles and glances over at Hattie, surprised.

Hattie wipes her hands on her apron, already thinking ahead.

Molly’s head snaps toward her, but she says nothing—just watching.

Jack nods slowly, understanding now. Molly, her expression unreadable, keeps staring at the sign with her name on it. A future she didn’t ask for—but maybe, just maybe—one she’s willing to claim. The crowd claps, some already peering through the windows, imagining a plate of hot food for the first time in a long while. As the last bolt is tightened, the diner is real. Their future is real.

A warm desert breeze carries the scent of sagebrush as LEFTY SMITH and an ENGINEER stand on the elevated terrace of the Resort Hotel, gazing out over Oasis Palms. Below them, the town hums with life—cars rolling down Main Street, the distant clang of a blacksmith, the buzz of workers outside Molly’s Diner. Lefty squints, visualizing his grand idea—an elevated scenic railroad weaving through the town, looping the oasis, and returning with panoramic views of the Mojave.

The ENGINEER, a middle-aged man in suspenders, thumbs through a blueprint, creases deepening on his brow.

Lefty nods absently, eyes still fixed on the town.

The engineer exhales, folding his arms.

Lefty turns sharply, eyebrows raised.

He taps the blueprint, tracing his finger along a line that runs straight through the heart of the town.

Lefty glances at the plans, following the engineer’s path with growing unease.

The engineer turns, motioning toward the back of the Resort Hotel—the proud, towering structure that overlooks all of Oasis Palms.

A long silence. Lefty’s jaw tightens as he looks from the hotel to the town, then back to the blueprint.

The words hang in the dry air, heavy with meaning. The landmark of Oasis Palms. The pinnacle of his grandfather’s legacy. Gone.

Lefty clenches his jaw, his dream suddenly feeling bigger than he ever imagined—and so do the sacrifices that come with it.

The low hum of clippers and the scent of shaving cream fill Don’s Barbershop, the unofficial meeting place for Oasis Palms’ town leaders. A group of men sit in leather chairs, some getting a trim, others nursing cups of coffee while swapping gossip and grievances. At the center of it all, CURTIS SMITH, his sleeves rolled up, listens with arms crossed, his face unreadable. Across from him, LEFTY SMITH stands, tense, holding blueprints under his arm—but the conversation isn’t going well.

A few of the town elders scoff, exchanging bemused looks.

Lefty exhales sharply, gripping the back of a chair.

The room murmurs in agreement, nodding as the barber dusts off a fresh haircut.

Lefty looks around the room, scanning the hardened faces of men who built this town, men set in their ways.

A long silence.

Lefty’s jaw tightens. He looks to his father, but Curtis won’t budge.

Lefty grits his teeth, shakes his head, then turns on his heel, shoving the blueprints under his arm. As he storms out, the brass bell over the door clangs loudly. A few of the men exchange glances, some shaking their heads, others watching him go with curiosity. Curtis sits back, rubbing his jaw, watching his son walk away frustrated—but he doesn’t call after him. Because in his mind, the matter is settled.

Smoke billows into the desert sky, turning the moon an eerie shade of orange. The Resort Hotel, the proud landmark of Oasis Palms, is engulfed in fire—flames licking at the grand structure as windows explode outward, showering glass onto the lawn below. Some work to form a bucket brigade, passing water up from the well, while others watch in frozen horror. 

The townsfolk gather in frantic clusters, their faces illuminated by the blaze above them on the hill. In the chaos, LEFTY SMITH stands a few yards away, his face set like stone, eyes locked on the inferno. The firelight flickers in his gaze, unreadable. Behind him, murmurs spread like embers on the wind. Hattie, Molly, and her twin 6-year-old boys LLOYD and FLOYD SMITH stand silent.

Nearby, CURTIS SMITH and MARY SMITH arrive, pushing through the crowd, their faces pale in the glow of the fire.

Mary’s hand tightens on Curtis’s arm, her gaze flicking to her son.

Curtis doesn’t answer. A few feet away, HATTIE MAE JOHNSON, arms crossed, watching Lefty closely.

Molly exhales, shaking her head slowly.

• A rancher muttering to his wife: “He needed to clear that land for his damn railroad—now, here we are.”
• A group of old-timers near the saloon: “Lefty’s Folly. We all said it. Now the hotel’s just ashes.”
• A younger worker, shaking his head: “Couldn’t get the town’s blessing, so he just took what he wanted.”

As the fire rages, Lefty finally tears his gaze from the flames, jaw clenched. He can feel the town’s eyes on him—watching, judging. Then he sees it—doubt. In their faces. In his own family. Even in himself. He stands, fists clenched, but says nothing. MOLLY leaves the twins with HATTIE and strides toward the murmuring crowd.

Lefty spins. MOLLY stands at the edge of the crowd, chin lifted, eyes fierce.

A tense silence. Lefty meets Molly’s gaze. Something unspoken passes between them. Then—from within the crumbling hotel, a deep groan of timber. The roof collapses inward, sending a fireball into the night sky. The crowd stumbles back. A gasp ripples through them. The Resort Hotel of Oasis Palms is no more. And in the flickering embers, something changes—the town quietly divides. Between those who believe in Lefty—And those who never will again.

Sunlight cuts across the desert as the camera glides along a dusty rail spur leading into the caves of the Barco Plateau. Inside the caves just past the boarded-up entrance of the long abandoned Barco Mine, stands the Barco Distillery—a low building built of stone and timber, weathered but proud.

Beside it, an old wooden rust-orange Santa Fe boxcar—its faded lettering stenciled with a bold white “No. 5”—rests on stacked railroad ties. Its side doors open, revealing a dimly lit storage room with a make-shift tasting room, lined with old oak barrels a couple of dusty chairs with a small table.

Out front, the copper still gleams atop a raised wooden platform. Coils snake around the back, dripping slow, steady heart-cut rye into a barrel. A small loading dock sits just beyond—still solid—where the train stops to haul off freight: cases and casks of Barco Rye.

CAMERA PANS slowly into the shadowed interior of Old No. 5. Dust motes dance in shafts of light. At a small table, SCOOTER and ANDREW, both in their late 80s, sit across from each other.

Their hands are rough and veined. Their eyes still hold sparks of mischief. Between them: two tumblers, half full of dark amber whisky.

Scooter raises his glass in a slow salute. Andrew nods, matching him. No need for words. Just the hum of the desert wind outside and the clink of glass.

They sip in silence. From deep in the cave above, the flutter of wings echoes — bats slipping out into the dusk, one by one. Out front near the still, the clang of a shovel and the roar of flame as coal hits the firebox. A young worker grunts as he feeds the heat.

The shovel pauses. Silence returns, broken only by the hiss of steam and the settling creak of the old boxcar wood around them. Scooter smirks, raises his glass again.

The young worker wipes sweat from his brow, shovels one last load of coal into the roaring firebox beneath the still. The metal groans. Steam hisses. A faint whine begins to build. The boy frowns. Steps back.

Something’s wrong. The copper still begins to rattle violently, pressure valve screaming. The worker turns to run— BOOM! — The still explodes in a blast of steam and fire, sending shrapnel and flame across the distillery platform. Barrels ignite. The flame leaps.

Inside the tasting room, Scooter and Andrew are still at their table, unfazed, mid-sip. The explosion makes the walls quake. Dust falls from the ceiling. A glow begins to creep through the open boxcar door.

They both laugh softly, raise their glasses in a final toast as the firelight swells behind them. The flames engulf the building, then spread to the boxcar, wrapping it in orange heat.

The fire races up the old wooden staircase built during prohibition that leads to the basement of the Resort Hotel perched on the cliff above. Flames lick the railing, climb like a living thing.

The tasting room is fully ablaze. Scooter and Andrew are still at the table, silhouetted by fire and smoke, glasses raised. They never move.

Away from the crowd, in the shadow of his Mobil Service Station, Molly finds Lefty staring into the distance.

Lefty exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. When he finally speaks, it’s not his usual confidence—it’s something closer to doubt.

A beat. He swallows hard.

Molly’s breath catches.

His voice tightens, as if the weight of it all finally settles on his chest.

Molly studies him—her husband, the dreamer, the gambler. She reaches for his hand, squeezing it.

Lefty looks at her, the burden too heavy to carry alone.

A mahogany desk, a stack of legal documents, and the faint scent of polished wood and old paper. Sunlight filters through tall windows, casting long shadows. MOLLY DAVENPORT-SMITH, now 32, sits across from JACK SMITH, Lefty’s uncle, her surrogate-father and trustee of her inheritance. A cup of untouched coffee sits between them.

Jack exhales, shaking his head. He pulls a thick binder closer, flipping through Molly’s investment paperwork. His fingers tap against the page as he calculates.

A heavy beat. Molly’s shoulders sink, disappointment flickering across her face.

Molly stills. Her fingers tighten around the arms of the chair. She blinks, processing.

Jack studies her for a moment, smiles then pushes a balance sheet across the desk. Molly picks it up, scanning the figures. Her breath catches.

Jack nods, his expression calm but knowing. Pointing to the number at the bottom of the page.

Molly shakes her head, as if the number is too big to be real.

Molly exhales, still staring at the figures.

He pauses, watching her reaction.

Jack gestures to the document.

Molly runs a hand through her hair, her mind racing. Slowly, the initial shock fades… replaced by something else. Resolve.

She exhales, straightens her shoulders—her decision made.

Jack watches her carefully, then leans forward, his voice dropping, serious.

Molly’s brow furrows, listening intently.

He taps the balance sheet between them.

Molly meets his gaze, the weight of his words sinking in.

A long silence. Jack leans back, watching her, measuring her resolve. Molly exhales slowly, then nods. Jack smirks faintly, shaking his head. She’s her father’s daughter, through and through.

SCREEN OVERLAY: “2 Years Later – 1954”

The desert sun blazes high, casting sharp shadows over Oasis Palms, now a town transformed. Steel girders glint in the sunlight as workers weld beams together, their sparks flying, constructing the long-awaited elevated railway. The low hum of machinery, the clang of hammers, and the whir of drills fill the air.

Just beyond the tracks, a sleek mid-century modern motel is taking shape—THE FLAMINGO MOTEL, its pink neon sign is being installed on the roof, awaiting the moment it will light up the town.

On a hill overlooking the site, LEFTY SMITH stands, hands on his hips, his face full of pride. Beside him, MOLLY SMITH, now in her mid-30s, watches with a mixture of wonder and warmth, her hand resting on his arm. Their twin 7-year-old boys, FLOYD (short dark hair) and LLOYD (curly blonde hair) stand nearby, Lloyd holding a toy train, the Floyd pointing excitedly at the tracks.

Lefty laughs, ruffling their hair, his gaze never leaving the railway.

Molly leans into him, smiling.

Lefty exhales, taking it all in—the tracks stretching over the town, the new Flamingo Motel rising, the promise of something bigger than just a dream. A nearby worker signals, and a large crane lifts a final section of rail into place. No longer folly. It’s real. It’s happening.

Lefty chuckles, looking down at his sons.

Molly watches him, her heart full, knowing that everything he fought for—all the doubt, the sacrifices, the whispers about the fire—was worth it. Lefty wraps an arm around her, pulling her close. Behind them, the neon letters on the Flamingo Motel’s sign catch the sun—a new icon for a new Oasis Palms. The twins laugh, racing each other toward the tracks, their voices mixing with the sounds of progress. Lefty and Molly stand together, watching the future take shape. A new era for Oasis Palms has begun.

The sun sinks low, casting long, golden shadows over the quiet train depot. The rails shimmer, but there’s something different now—something missing. A lone Santa Fe freight train is heard passing in the distance, its whistle piercing the still desert air, but it does not appear. It never will again.

LEFTY SMITH stands at his window, looking down at Main Street. The neon signs flicker, but the hustle of tourists has waned. On his desk, a telegram from Santa Fe Railway Headquarters sits unfolded, the ink still fresh. CLOSE ON TELEGRAM: “EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, DAILY PASSENGER SERVICE TO OASIS PALMS DISCONTINUED. FREIGHT SERVICE TO FOLLOW. SPUR LINE REMOVAL PLANS IN MOTION. STOP.” Lefty leans forward, gripping the edge of his desk, jaw clenched.

Lefty paces, the weight of something far greater pressing down on him. This isn’t just railroad business. This isn’t just profit loss. This is something else. Something deliberate.

A gust of wind rattles the windows. His desk lamp flickers. He turns, pulling open a filing cabinet, rifling through maps, land deeds, and old agreements with the railroad. He stops on one page. His eyes narrow.

The railroad tracks. The FENNER VALLEY, The aquafir beneath Oasis Palms. It all intersects. Lefty exhales sharply, a new fear settling in his gut. This wasn’t just a business decision. This was about control. And someone wanted Oasis Palms cut off. The town had survived fire, doubt, and the weight of its own ambition. But now? It was up against something unseen. And Lefty wasn’t about to let it happen without a fight.