If people actually notice her, they probably deem her eccentric and, distracted by the colorful, flashing lights of Las Vegas, quickly forget her.

Time has not treated her well. Though she looks younger than her physiological age, the wrinkles now permanently creased into her face reflect decades of anxiety and rage. Her default expression is one of discontent; her lips naturally droop into a frown and her unplucked eyebrows are frequently furrowed. The dark bags underneath her eyes are stuffed with burdens and pain from years past.

Her smile—once beautiful, once her best feature—has lost its charm: It is now uneven, asymmetrical. Her lips usually obscure an errant front tooth, one that hangs limply from her dark gums in defiance of her other teeth.

The silvery-grey hairs that sprout from her scalp are often pushed back away from her face. They are thick, wiry, and stubborn, much like her personality.

She dresses for function, not fashion: Oversized blue jeans cover her short legs. She insists on wearing collared shirts and ensures that the collar lays over the heavy cotton sweater that features a bright logo. Over the sweater is a dark puffy jacket. Over her right shoulder is a drab brown handbag and in her right hand is a sixteen-ounce bottle of water. She might carry an unlabeled baseball cap in her left hand.

Everything she wears she purchased at the local swap meet. She takes pride in the cost savings.

In Las Vegas, she can put her talents to good use.

Inside her handbag are stacks of Keno sheets. She has saved them from years past and, prior to her arrival in the desert, she had studied them diligently: There is a pattern in the called numbers. There is always a pattern. And from this pattern, she can accurately predict what numbers will be called in the future.

She asserts her clairvoyance. She is confident in her gift. She already knows what numbers will lead to success and profit.

“But,” others argue, “the numbers are drawn randomly. There is no pattern. You can’t predict the numbers—no one can.”

Her lips easily shift to form a snarl. “I have done my homework! God has shown me the pattern! I know what numbers they will call. I can predict the future. God has told me what the right numbers will be.”

She seethes.

In Las Vegas, she grasps the crayon tightly in her right hand and presses firmly into the numbered grid printed onto the cheap paper. With too much force, she places an “X” into the boxes of her selection. She retraces the lines to ensure that her choices are clear. Sometimes the paper tears under the stress of her hand.

God has foretold the numbers. And God blesses her.

She sits on the faux-leather bar seats, clutching the water bottle tightly as she stares at the oversized screens hanging from the ceiling of the Keno lounge. She hasn’t bet a lot of money—one should always adhere to rules of frugality—and waits patiently to learn the results of her plays.

If people actually notice her, they probably deem her lonely and alone. Distracted by the garish displays of money within the casino, they walk past her, completely unaware that God is communicating to her at that moment in the language of numbers.

God bless her.