sacarm walks down the cracked sidewalk of the main strip, frizzy sun-bleached ginger hair blowing across her face, fair freckled skin glowing in the late afternoon sun. She wears a loose white button-up shirt tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up, denim cutoffs, scuffed cowboy boots. A chunky turquoise pendant hangs at her collarbone. She carries a greasy paper bag from the local diner in one hand, a soda in the other. Adobe buildings line the street, a faded mural on the wall behind her. Her expression is tired but content. Warm desert light, photorealistic.