The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Umm, there's this small, rundown gas station in the middle of a vast, empty salt flat. The air's really dry and has a strong smell of gasoline, and it's probably late afternoon judging from the sun's low position in the sky. A bunch of seagulls are somehow refueling their own beat-up, old-fashioned biplanes at the pumps, like they're on some sort of cross-country flight, and the whole scene is pretty quiet, with just the occasional clunking of metal and some distant, muffled engine noises. The air's pretty still, with just a slight breeze.