This was it.  The defining moment.  The critical juncture. Take the ride?  Or pass?  She climbed into the vintage red pick-up, set the army green backpack (much heavier now than when she struck out on her 18 th birthday), between battered ruby tennis shoes.  “Broker,” she gave the driver a slight smile.  “I’m heading to Broker.” White walls kicked up a trail of New Mexico dust as they pulled onto H...