They call it the war zone, like it's overseas, like there's a goddamn border between Central and the rest of the world. But it isn't a war. It's a slow bleed. Cracked sidewalks, faded motel, coughing out ghosts, sirens that seem lullabi to kids, too smart for their age, and too tired to dream. Some nights it smells like cheap vodka, burnt rubber, and hope running in the heat. I saw a woman selling something on Louisiana and Zouri and she smiles like she doesn't see the hell. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe she's the last saint left standing in the holy fent ruin. They want to rename it the international district like a new suit hiding broken ugly bones. But the zone doesn't lie. It wears its scars like a badge, prideful and confident. And the people dained victims. They're veterans just trying to make it to morning. City parks like open wounds, bleeding needles, cardboard graves. A man knoding off on a swing, pretending he's 5 years old again, but he's actually 45. Chasing the dragon. The grouse is brown because nobody waters death. And the pigeons don't care. They just struck pecking breadcrumbs. There might be something else. Sirens hum like liib. And under the broken street light, a woman with a cigarette and no teeth smiles like she knows something the rest of us don't. This is America, too. Just without the commercials. Welcome to the war zone in Albuquerque, New Mexico.