On a worn dirt path an old mule stumbles along. His tongue hangs out and he breaths deeply, trying to exhale all of the heat from his burning body. His saddle has long worn, and changed color to a bleached brown. In the distance the ground shines and waves in the heat of the desert summer. The saddle has long since tilted sideways and shifts around with his slowing steps.

To the left of the path a wooden door hangs off of a melancholy shack that seems to slouch with exhaustion. The mule halts, his head shifts up to look at the patch of shade the decrepit shack casts across the dessert sand. The mule tenses with fatigue. He sees the coolness of the shade and how he could rest his weak legs and worn hoofs. He relaxes with the though of being able to rest.

The mule had been walking for days, but he turns his head to the path. The mule has never been here and had no memory of were the path leads. He considers his options. He looks back to the cool piece of shade and realizes that after he would take the weight off his legs an lay on the warm sand, he would not be able to get back up again. He had calluses where the saddle battered across his skin and was used to carrying the burden of the worn, leather saddle with him. The aged mule is briefly reminded of a time when he had a rider on his back, and how long it had been since he had seen any other of his kind. The mule walks toward the sad cabin and stops a foot away from the shade. He looks at the comfort of sleeping and not having to continue walking in the hot sun. The mule licks his chops but his tongue is ruff with thirst and gives him little satisfaction. He looks at the shade, and turns back to the path lifting his head, he then lowers his head and walks on the aged dirt path.
The mule has no reason to continue, and a cool peaceful death is the easiest option, but he keeps going anyway.