I will not go without a fight. There are too many people in Sante Fe. The aliens know I cannot stay here long. Their patience is disturbing. I sit in public areas where it is safe, bearing my bones to the brightsun.
German families haul bags of merchandise from shop to shop.
Tonight, they will stand in front of their long hotel mirrors and hold up denim shirts, pierce themselves with turquoise jewelry, adjust cowboy hats to the most precisely flattering an gles. They will leave half-eaten steaks on their plates. I fall asleep on a bench in a square surrounded by tall cottonwoods. Sometime later, a policeman jabs my ribs. My presence has upset the German families.