who seem puzzled by her presence, who gallop over the hill to flee from this curious pilgrim of the cactus and prairie grass.
    At Pueblo Boulevard, the hiss of tires on snow- wet asphalt. A siren Dopplers in the distance. It sounds like Lila crying, trapped in a wooden box with Lord God, watching out the windows as the world becomes swallowed by dust. A car's deep bass speakers throb. Ruby limps through the weedy parking lot of an abandoned Circuit City next to a defunct Blockbuster Video. The haggard facade of a beauty shop tagged with gang graffiti. Smashed windows of a camera shop next door. Shattered glass and fast- food paper bags litter the asphalt.
    Ruby crosses the wide boulevard, forced to hurry on her sprained and swollen ankle through the honking traffic. The vet's office is a few miles farther. She reaches the median and waits for the walk signal. Cold spray from the passing cars' tires wets her cheeks. She slips her gauze mask over her mouth once again and stares stoically at the signal of an amber hand. Cars honk.
    Mosca and George Armstrong Crowfoot sit in a line of cars at the red light and see Ruby trying to cross, standing in the median, covered with red dust. It's freezing cold and the jacket she wears is thin. Mosca rolls down his window and tells her, Get inside, honey pie. Get warmed up. No sense being out in the cold like that.
    She shakes her head and won't look at them directly.
    Come on, sweetheart! Where you headed? We take you wherever you want to go. You're going to catch your death out there.
Ruby hunches her shoulders and stares at the traffic signal.
    Come on, chica ! Get in here and we warm you up! We won't bite. Promise. 'Less you want us to.
    Crowfoot feels sorry for her and watches as she hurries through the traffic, darting behind their pickup, to the other side of the intersection, caught by a green light halfway through, running with a hitch in her step in the pink snow.
    Cars honk behind the pickup until it roars away. Finally the light changes and Ruby crosses the second lane of traffic. She limps down the sidewalk beside a snow- covered golf course. A Christmas stillness envelops it, the rolling greens coated a pure pinkish white, strips of red storm dust visible in the hollows of the sand traps. She passes a cemetery beside a seedy business district. Colored Christmas lights festoon the eaves of Vietnamese massage parlors and shabby strip clubs/casinos promising all- nude dancers and half- price drinks. She walks beneath a sign proclaiming, all nudes, all the time
! The snow settles upon
cinder- block liquor stores and palm- reader shops advertising vi
siones del porvenir, amuletos para buen suerte, y pocÃones contra
mal ojo. She walks on, feverish and dizzy.
    On Polk Street Ruby comes upon La Iglesia de los Niños de Jesus Cristo. Her skin burns. A heavy weakness fills her bones. She can no longer see clearly. She rubs her eyes and holds out her good hand, watches the snow settle upon it like pink icing.
    The sky above ripples. Ruby limps through the churchyard, tears the gauze mask from her face, and gasps, spots in her eyes. When she reaches the steps of the brick church, her vision clouds purple. She sits on the cold steps.
    The snow grows heavier, falling in great fluffy flakes. Her hair is soaked and limp. Near her stands the church's nativity scene, a small hut of recycled lumber, a roof of juniper bows and straw, papier- mâché wise men, Joseph and Mary, a wheelbarrow in which lies a plastic doll, the baby Jesus. A square of straw- strewn earth surrounds it.
    She rises and limps to the shelter of the hut, bone- weary and feverish. Into the wheelbarrow she curls her body around the doll, its blue plastic eyes open wide with artificial lashes fat and
    At Pueblo Boulevard, the hiss of tires on snow- wet asphalt. A siren Dopplers in the distance. It sounds like Lila crying, trapped in a wooden box with Lord God, watching out the windows as the world becomes swallowed by dust. A car's deep bass speakers throb. Ruby limps through the weedy parking lot of an abandoned Circuit City next to a defunct Blockbuster Video. The haggard facade of a beauty shop tagged with gang graffiti. Smashed windows of a camera shop next door. Shattered glass and fast- food paper bags litter the asphalt.
    Ruby crosses the wide boulevard, forced to hurry on her sprained and swollen ankle through the honking traffic. The vet's office is a few miles farther. She reaches the median and waits for the walk signal. Cold spray from the passing cars' tires wets her cheeks. She slips her gauze mask over her mouth once again and stares stoically at the signal of an amber hand. Cars honk.
    Mosca and George Armstrong Crowfoot sit in a line of cars at the red light and see Ruby trying to cross, standing in the median, covered with red dust. It's freezing cold and the jacket she wears is thin. Mosca rolls down his window and tells her, Get inside, honey pie. Get warmed up. No sense being out in the cold like that.
    She shakes her head and won't look at them directly.
    Come on, sweetheart! Where you headed? We take you wherever you want to go. You're going to catch your death out there.
Ruby hunches her shoulders and stares at the traffic signal.
    Come on, chica ! Get in here and we warm you up! We won't bite. Promise. 'Less you want us to.
    Crowfoot feels sorry for her and watches as she hurries through the traffic, darting behind their pickup, to the other side of the intersection, caught by a green light halfway through, running with a hitch in her step in the pink snow.
    Cars honk behind the pickup until it roars away. Finally the light changes and Ruby crosses the second lane of traffic. She limps down the sidewalk beside a snow- covered golf course. A Christmas stillness envelops it, the rolling greens coated a pure pinkish white, strips of red storm dust visible in the hollows of the sand traps. She passes a cemetery beside a seedy business district. Colored Christmas lights festoon the eaves of Vietnamese massage parlors and shabby strip clubs/casinos promising all- nude dancers and half- price drinks. She walks beneath a sign proclaiming, all nudes, all the time
! The snow settles upon
cinder- block liquor stores and palm- reader shops advertising vi
siones del porvenir, amuletos para buen suerte, y pocÃones contra
mal ojo. She walks on, feverish and dizzy.
    On Polk Street Ruby comes upon La Iglesia de los Niños de Jesus Cristo. Her skin burns. A heavy weakness fills her bones. She can no longer see clearly. She rubs her eyes and holds out her good hand, watches the snow settle upon it like pink icing.
    The sky above ripples. Ruby limps through the churchyard, tears the gauze mask from her face, and gasps, spots in her eyes. When she reaches the steps of the brick church, her vision clouds purple. She sits on the cold steps.
    The snow grows heavier, falling in great fluffy flakes. Her hair is soaked and limp. Near her stands the church's nativity scene, a small hut of recycled lumber, a roof of juniper bows and straw, papier- mâché wise men, Joseph and Mary, a wheelbarrow in which lies a plastic doll, the baby Jesus. A square of straw- strewn earth surrounds it.
    She rises and limps to the shelter of the hut, bone- weary and feverish. Into the wheelbarrow she curls her body around the doll, its blue plastic eyes open wide with artificial lashes fat and
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