It’s past midnight on a cold February evening, and a woman staggers down the middle of the street, so intoxicated she can’t remember her address. In another part of town, two men have crawled inside cupboards and passed out. Behind a fast-food joint, a trio hides in the sagebrush, their breath and skin reeking with the last thing they ingested: Gatorade laced with hair spray. Every day, these men and women roam the streets panhandling or looking for work. Every night, they seek shelter, refuge, a place to drink and forget. Most of them are Native.
This is what hopelessness looks like. This is Gallup, New Mexico.
Ditch Patrol
