It is barely 8 AM on Sunday and the thick desert air is already on the edge of uncomfortably warm. Marjorie Miller stands at the front of her bungalow-style senior citizens' apartment complex, patting her silver hair and fiddling with the gold crucifix at her breast. Her casual green polyester slacks and white sneakers fit the all-purpose dress code for Las Vegas retirees. The words "Ten Commandments," printed on her T- shirt, peek out from her zippered sweater.
She checks her watch, but not in the manner of someone who is late. She isn't. Her bus isn't scheduled to arrive for another fifteen minutes.
"It gets here at about eight-ten. They say eight-fifteen, but it's usually eight-ten--never after eight-twelve. I think they come early so everyone has a little extra time, and they can help people with walkers and things," she says.
Marjorie should know. She has been taking this shuttle every Sunday morning since she moved to Las Vegas ten years ago. "They don't actually start until nine, but they get you there a little early so you can chat with people you know--even pray a little beforehand!" she giggles. "There's a group that I always see, of course, and we always sit together, save each other seats. Of course, you don't talk while it's going on. Otherwise people can't hear."
It's a common enough scene, one you might see in any American town: a little old lady waiting for the bus to Sunday-morning services. But this