“The snow that began at midafternoon had faded the sign’s virulent yellow to a kinder pastel shade as the light ran out of the January dusk.”

“The redness was going out of the light now, the remains of the day were a fading pink, the color of wild roses.”

“Any thoughts of guilt, any feelings of regret, had faded. The desert had baked them out.”

“But still, sometimes, in the heart of winter when the light outside seemed yellow- sleepy, like a cat curled up on a sofa...”

“Outside, daylight was bleeding slowly toward dusk.”

“The sky was the yellow color of old cheese and the clouds flew across it, as if they had seen something horrifying in the desert wastes where they had so lately been.”

“But there was only that silence, as in the five or ten minutes before a vicious thundersquall strikes, when the purple heads stack up in the sky overhead and the light turns a queer purple-yellow and the wind dies completely.”