The year is 2050. A suburban wasteland extends far out of sight. Having used up all the “easily” accessible sources of oil, purchasing gas became all but impossible for everyone except the very rich. Mass migration out toward major cities, stripped the suburban landscape of everything not nailed down, as well as much that was, leaving behind only skeletal remains of wood and metal, loose trash, and not much more. Some of the rainier places grew forests of mulberry and maple trees, hiding much of the memory of the Age of Cheap Oil. And in the arid places, like Arizona and Southern California, the desert quickly reclaims all. It’s on a bright cloudless mid-morning day, in a lost suburb of Tuscan, we find two leisurely serpents sliding over a cool slab of cement, shaded by the partial carcass of the house that once stood there. “I don’t know about you,” hisses one to the other, “but, I’m kinda glad they’re gone.”