A tall, heavy-set man with shaggy blond hair and straight-cropped bangs stands in the middle of an empty gravel parking lot. He looks around aimlessly, hands shoved in his pockets.
When he sees a car pulling up, he turns, hands still stuffed in pockets, and hurries over to a small building with a satellite on the roof and a serape covering the door.
"Someone's here," he says into the darkened building.
A minute later, a small, wiry man wearing tight, black yoga pants, a fanny pack, and a baseball cap pulled over a graying ponytail appears in the doorway and moves across the lot with a mountain goat's spring in his step.
"Hello, I'm Matthew," he says, a grin touching the corners of his mouth. "Welcome to Peyote Way."