The tourists have gone home. Oatman is left to its few residents. One of them sits on the steps of its shuttered hotel, smoking a cigarette. I use my vantage point to abstract him, reducing him to a hand, leg, and foot. The hand falls into silhouette against the tattered yellow wall. On the window behind him are pictures of the town’s semi-wild burros, which wander the streets looking for handouts. A small poster warns against feeding carrots to baby burros – some have choked to death on them. Shortly after I made this image, the man tossed aside his cigarette and vanished, leaving the hotel to the famous ghosts reputed to stalk its halls.