The camera shakes slightly as the recording begins. The lens is clouded with condensation from a coat pocket. A thumb wipes it clear, revealing a stretch of empty, frost-covered highway in the high desert.

Elias doesn’t answer. He fits the key into a padlock that shouldn't exist on a government-owned fence. With a heavy clack , the lock falls open.

As the gate swings wide, the camera pans to the right. There, hidden by a trick of the topography and the morning mist, is a bridge. It doesn't span a river or a canyon. It sits in the middle of a flat, dusty basin, arching toward nothing, its stone pillars glowing in the weak January sun.