 
Why the Star Stands Still

Rose Christo

1

Sun and Moon

I stared at the computer monitor, the dull glow burning imprints into the backs of my eyes.

Oh, did I hate that computer.

Focus, I told myself. Stop slacking.

No, the real problem is that I hate writing about as much as I hate reading--by which I mean I really, really, really hate reading. Nothing bores me more than stationary text on stationary paper. Except numbers. Numbers and reading and writing.

I probably shouldn't have picked a career that's about 40% reading, 60% writing.

The Seven Major Crimes Act, I started to write. But immediately I paused, the cursor blinking back at me. The Seven Major Crimes Act was a real pain in the neck--which was exactly why I was trying to get rid of it. I don't know whether you're familiar with the law I'm talking about--if not, that's okay; like I said, it's pretty boring--but way back in the 1800s, Congress came up with this crazy law that says Native Americans aren't allowed to do anything if a "major" crime happens on their reservation. Like murder, or arson...or burglary, or rape, or pretty much anything else that would compromise a human being's safety. Instead, we're supposed to sit tight and wait for the FBI to show up.

The problem with that, unfortunately, is that the FBI usually can't be bothered. More than half the time, they'll get a report about a serious crime out on an Indian reservation, and as long as it doesn't involve any money they can scoop up, they'll ignore it. Why not? Reservations tend to be pretty low-tech; it's not going to make the news if a mass murder happens out here, and it's definitely not going to make the news if the federal government tramples all over us. So if you're living on a reservation, and you're the victim of a really bad crime, you've got a long, long road ahead of you before you get any justice.

It's an outdated law. Getting anybody in Congress to care that it's outdated...I guess that's another story.

The computer screen was starting to give me a headache. I slouched in my seat. I pulled on my eyelids.

Forget law, I thought. I should've been a ranch hand.

"Some damn kid swallowed a pencil today. How do you swallow a pencil?"

I hadn't even heard the front door open. I shut off the computer monitor and stood up.

Rafael was his usual unkempt self today, square wire glasses askew, hair lank and black, a single, thin braid hanging next to his temple, knotted with a soft gray dove's feather. He'd confided in me, once, that the dove was what he considered his spirit guide. You're not supposed to talk to anyone about your spirit guide--that's a pretty big taboo in Plains Shoshone society--but rules were made to be broken, I guess.

Rafael tugged his sea-green hospital shirt over his head. He tossed it on the floor, slob that he was. Not that I really minded. It gave me a good excuse to look at his chest. His very tattooed chest. Seriously--anything he can get his hands on, he'll draw on it, whether it's paper and charcoal or his own skin. He's got a gray wolf on his chest and a chain on his arm. Don't get me started on his neck.

"And then the mother wanted to keep the pencil--like a souvenir or something--"

Rafael wandered into the sitting room at the back of the house. When we'd first built the place, I'd wanted the sitting room in the front. "That's ridiculous," Rafael had rallied. "If we put the sitting room in the front of the house, then where do we put the front room?"

I followed Rafael into the sitting room. Square and spacious, two airy windows intermittent with drawings and sketches. A God's Eye above the hearth. A photo of my grandmother sitting on the mantel.

"--and then the kid wouldn't sit still when I was spraying benzocaine down his throat, got it in his eyes and everything--"

Rafael tossed himself onto the low sofa with a cathartic grunt of relief. I tried not to let him see my laugh.

No good. "What are you laughing at?" he said, disgruntled.

"The giant pilot whale that just beached itself in my living room."

I sat next to Rafael on the sofa. He looked at me, his face contorting into about a thousand different expressions. I love that about him. I love everything about him, but his facial expressions are the best. Smoldering is his default. Bewildered is his backup.

He broke into a grin--radiant, boyish, beautiful. A grin that scattered light into his dark blue eyes.

"You're an ass," he said.

"I try," I remarked. "Did you have a rough day?"

"Nah," he said. "It wasn't so bad."

Rafael's a speech therapist. If you can't talk, or swallow, he's the guy you want to go to. Funny thing about that. Most of my life, I couldn't talk.

He changed that.

Rafael grimaced. "I've gotta get out of here," he said.

Another thing about Rafael: He hates being indoors for too long. I can only imagine how stir crazy he gets when he's cooped up in the reservation hospital for hours on end.

I stood from the sofa. "Want to go for a walk?"

Rafael stood, too. "Okay."

I smiled lightly. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

He glanced down at his bare chest. He scowled.

"Fine," he said, and trudged up the staircase.

One change of clothes later, and we headed out the door.

The cicadas on the treetops were winding down for the evening, the brook behind the house gurgling and bright. The sky flushed pink and sparked gold over the tops of the beech trees and the alders. Years and years ago, a pine beetle infestation had killed the ponderosa trees standing on this site. Leaving a huge gap in the middle of the forest had seemed kind of like a waste--so Rafael and I had built on top of it instead. It's pretty nice out here, so long as you don't cross the brook. Head too far north and you run into a gang of ornery black bears.

We walked the eastern path to the lake, my hand swinging at my side. Rafael took my hand in his. I love it when he does little things like that. It's like second nature; it's like he doesn't even think about it.

"You nervous about tomorrow?" Rafael asked.

Tomorrow was the day my father came home from prison.

Fifteen years ago, my father went to prison for what was supposed to be a life sentence. I'm not going to lie: Dad did commit the crime he was convicted for. It's just that the conviction, to begin with, was unlawful. You know that Major Crimes Act I was talking about earlier? It's supposed to grant the federal government authority over crimes on Indian reservations, right? Well, the kooky way it was worded has the government locked in a Constitutional loophole. The only way they can make an arrest on a reservation is if the crime happened on the reservation, too. Dad's crime happened out in Wyoming. The arrest was illegal.

It took seven years to do it--and about a billion migraines--but eventually, I'd convinced a judge to agree.

Nervous? I wasn't nervous. I was ready to throw up. Barring attorney-client visits, I hadn't really seen my dad in years. Not the way he used to be.

Rafael looked at me sideways. He squeezed my shoulder in a broad hand. Rafael always knew what was going through my mind, sometimes with startling accuracy. We'd never needed words to communicate in the past.

But I've got to admit--they're a pretty nice perk.

"You hear anything from Zeke?" I asked.

The lake drew into view--ten whole acres, glittering under the slow-setting sun. A couple of school kids plashed lazily in the shallow waters. It was the start of summer vacation. I guess they were celebrating.

"No," Rafael grumbled, and we sat together on the soft and silty lakeshore. Rafael looped his arms across his knees, dark eyes on the radio tower opposite.

Gently, I gripped his knee.

"How long do we have to wait to get a kid?" Rafael said bitterly. "Thousands of kids in foster care need a home. And we've got a home. So what's the wait?"

I regarded him softly. "It's not a conspiracy," I said, trying to soothe him. "We're like a product Zeke's got to sell to CPS."

"Huh..."

"He's got to sell them on the idea of us as parents. You know--two guys. On an Indian reservation. With very little electricity."

"We've got electricity," Rafael said defensively. "We just don't need it for much."

"You're very fond of your cellar," I said lightly.

"Sitting down there with the ice? Best remedy for the heat wave," he said matter-of-factly.

"You know...Rafael...I think you might be a visionary."

"I've been saying that for years. Why do you have to be so slow about these things?"

"I'm very sorry."

"Yeah, well," he said gruffly, "I'll forgive you, I guess."

I laid my head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around my back.

Seventeen years. That's how long I've known him. That's how long I've loved him. Seventeen years later and he still makes my heart feel giddy and weightless. Seventeen years later and my favorite place in the world is still the safety of his arms.

Seventeen years later and I'm still a sappy idiot. Go figure.

"Sky?" Rafael said.

I smiled. "Hm?"

"You're pulling on my earring."

I lifted my head from his shoulder. A laugh bubbled out of me before I could catch it. He must have heard it, because he smiled, a shy smile that pulled at the corners of his lips, a smile that revealed his dimples and the light hidden far in the back of his eyes.

"I like your voice," he said.

I'll never forget what it was like, six years ago; recovering from surgery in a scratchy hospital bed, uttering my first raspy word in twenty-two years. "Ow." My first word was, "Ow." A friend of ours, Zeke Owns Forty, happened to be sitting on my knees at the time. He's pretty scatter-brained like that.

I tucked Rafael's braid behind his ear. "Have I thanked you lately?" I asked.

I could see the gears shifting behind his eyes. I could see the half-formed smile fighting its way onto his face, his face fighting back. "No," he finally said.

I'm sure I would have found a witty proposition to retort with. But as it happened, a wet, slimy bundle fell across our laps.

"What the hell?" Rafael said, a stormy scowl overtaking his face.

"Hi, Leon," I said mildly.

"I went in the lake," Leon said. He was six years old and big-eyed, the baby fat of yesteryear still prominent on his chubby little legs. He kicked his legs and sprayed Rafael and me with lake water. "Mom said I couldn't but then I did and Aunt Lila said I couldn't but then I did and then Nick said I couldn't but I did and he got mad so he went home."

Rafael and I exchanged a look.

"Does your mom know you're out here?" I asked, palming the crown of Leon's very wet head.

Leon pretended not to have heard me.

"Okay," I said. I picked him up by his ankles and stood.

"Help!" he yelped, dangling upside-down.

"Don't ask me for help," Rafael said harshly. "I'm not siding with you. Your mom scares me."

"Is your mom home, Leon?" I asked.

"Yes. Help! Help!"

I righted him and set him down. I grabbed the back of his drenched shirt before he could run very far. Leon's a little wild child. I don't know how Annie and Aubrey keep up with him.

Rafael and I marched Leon down the dirt path and out to the reservation proper. Log cabins stood clustered amid bull and pinyon pines, a communal stone firepit jutting out of the dried and briny dirt. Butter churns and clotheslines lingered abandoned outside the houses' hardy wood doors. Nobody wanted to work during the twilight hours.

"Leggo," Leon said, struggling against us.

"Nope," Rafael said, and gripped his hand tighter.

We walked the country lane between ranches and rolling farmland. By now Leon had forfeited the battle; he skipped along between us, unfazed. Rural gates creaked in the weak summer wind. Pearl-white crabapple blossoms hung sweetly from their trees' branches, the scent of their fruit intoxicating and thick.

Iron balusters preceded the giant, darkly wooded farm manor where my best friend, Annie Little Hawk, lived with her husband, Aubrey. Aubrey's brothers and their spouses all lived in the manor, too. And their children. You know, there's this superstition in Shoshone society--if somebody dies in your house, you're supposed to abandon it immediately. You're not even allowed to tear it down. The elderly tend to move out of their houses and into wickiups when they hit their late seventies. That way their children can inherit their homes. This house had belonged to Aubrey's parents once. I still miss them. I'm sure he does, too.

Rafael and I lifted Leon under his arms. I guess he got a kick out of that, because he whooped and swung his legs. We carried him across the lawn, past the teeming crops at the front gate.

The dark-paneled door already stood open. That's how it is in Nettlebush. Everybody knows everybody else, so we tend to walk in on each other without knocking.

"Annie!" I called out. Leon followed us dutifully into the foyer, his qualms forgotten.

We found Annie in the kitchen by the wood-coal stove with a woman and a young girl. The wide bay window stood open, dragonflies skimming the surface of the pond outside.

Annie spun around.

Jeez, her belly was huge.

"Are you ever not pregnant?" I joked, and pushed Leon toward her.

"Ha, ha," Annie said humorlessly. It was kind of a riot to see her with that stomach. Annie's short--ridiculously short--and her pregnancy made her look as wide as she was tall. Her long brown hair was pulled up in a loop at the nape of her neck. "What's all this about?"

"He jumped in the lake," Rafael said sourly.

Serafine Takes Flight whirled around at the stove. So did Daisy At Dawn. Poor Leon, I thought. I wouldn't want those three looking at me the way they did him.

"You know you're not supposed to!" Serafine said. "You're too little." Which was kind of weird, coming from her mouth, because I could still remember when she was three years old, dandled in her father's arms.

"You want the lake monster to eat you?" Daisy said, and barely managed to hide a wicked, bubbly smile.

"Yes," Leon said.

"Go change your clothes," Annie said. "Then you can get a towel and dry up all the water you brought into the house."

"No!" Leon wailed.

"Yes," Annie said placidly. "Oh, Skylar, since you're here..."

I pulled a face. I love Annie--I do--but she has a way of sinking her hooks into you and getting you to run her errands.

"He can't," Rafael said. "Bye."

He grabbed my hand and dragged me from the house before Annie could retaliate.

The sun was sluggish today in its daily descent. Light still clung to the walls of the drifting clouds, cream-colored and ethereal. I could hear the coywolves yipping in the pinyon trees, no doubt settling down after a long day of hunting.

Rafael's hand rested against the small of my back. Together we walked the beaten path back to the neighborhood.

"Hey," Rafael murmured.

I looked up with a quizzical smile.

He nodded toward a log cabin on our right, a sundial outside.

My heart twisted in my chest. My grandmother's house. My grandmother had raised me.

I really missed her.

"Do you wanna go inside?" Rafael asked.

"No," I said. I cleared my throat. "Thank you."

"You sure?"

I nodded.

In Nettlebush, dinner is a group occasion. Everyone gathers around the firepit and shares Plains food and Plains music and the Plains stories their parents taught them. It's kind of like a block party, only it happens every night.

Come nighttime, there were hundreds of us seated around the blazing bonfire--on the ground, on folding chairs, on picnic benches. Morgan Stout played his plains flute, Heather and Henry Siomme danced the grass dance, and my sister, Jessica, joined me at the picnic table.

When I say "sister," it's really more like "step-sister." Jessica and I aren't related. Her mom married my dad some years ago. Actually, I think that's pretty remarkable. Back then, nobody knew for certain that my dad was coming home. Racine married him anyway. I can't think of a more profound way to show someone you support them.

Jessica giggled. "You know your husband stomps around like a grumpy elephant when he's on call?"

Jessica was a nurse.

"I wasn't aware," I said with a wry smile. "Where's DeShawn?" I asked.

"I don't know. I think he stayed late at the council building. He won't be satisfied until he alphabetizes and color codes all the tribal files..."

Jessica grabbed my arm and shook it. "Skylar! Are you excited about tomorrow?"

"You mean Dad coming home?"

"I can't wait," Jessica said. "I really missed Uncle Paul."

I let my smile speak for itself. I missed him too. More than anything. More than the sun misses the moon. They were married, you know, the sun and the moon. Ask any Shoshone. The only reason they come out at opposite times of day is because the divorce was so ugly, they can't stand to look at each other.

"How's Stuart?" I asked.

Jessica wrinkled her face. "He spends all his time out at Bear River these days."

"You know that's a little creepy, right?" I said. "I went to school with the guy, Jess."

"I know, I know..."

"And he's dating my little sister--"

"Who's dating our little sister?"

DeShawn came scurrying over to us, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Smooth guy, that DeShawn.

"No one, DeShawn," Jessica said, and rolled her eyes.

"Skylar," DeShawn said. "Are you picking up Uncle Paul tomorrow?"

"Yep. We're taking Gabriel's car. Do you want to come?"

DeShawn squirmed. "I don't know. All those people at once, I wonder if it's too much for him..."

My dad's not a solitary creature. The more people he's around, the more he thrives. I can't imagine what it was like for him in prison all those years, separated from his family and friends.

"You know what?" I said. "I think he'd be happy to see the both of you. You should come along. We'll go out to lunch afterward."

DeShawn smiled. "I bet he'd enjoy that..."

"Oh, I'm coming," Jessica said. "I'm supposed to be at the hospital tomorrow morning. I'll ask Prairie Rose to cover for me."

Nettlebush doesn't operate off of the same economy the rest of America uses. In fact, except for when we need to leave the reservation, money doesn't even change hands. Shoshone have always relied on a "gift economy"--kind of a "You scratch my back, I scratch yours" sort of deal. The idea is that if everybody helps everybody else, then everybody lives well. It works, too. The only downside is that a little old man can show up on your doorstep at two in the morning and ask you to fix his pit toilet, and you've got to go do it.

Jessica hopped up from the table, her braids bouncing, and walked off.

"Then I'll tell Autumn Rose," DeShawn said. His face took on a faraway expression. "That woman sure is something..."

"You're blushing."

"Whoops," DeShawn said. And he darted off.

By this point in the evening, I was starting to miss Rafael. That's really sad, I know. So I got up from the picnic table; and I went looking for him.

I found him, sure enough, underneath a ponderosa tree with his sister, Mary.

"Hey, loser!" Mary said. I kind of miss her crazy teased hair and her black corsets, but she's nearing forty; maybe she figures it's time to calm down. Or not. Her nose is still pierced. "Want a beer?"

"Shut up, Mary," Rafael said. "Zeke's looking for us," he said to me.

"Really?" I sat down with the two of them. "Where is he now?"

I didn't have to wait long before Zeke came lumbering over to us in all his lean and frantic glory; his suit seriously rumpled, half of his head shaven, the rest of his hair long and combed to the side, exactly the way his ancestors would have worn it.

Zeke Owns Forty is the kind of guy you wouldn't want to bring to a library. Or a museum. Or an airport. Or a supermarket. I don't ever recall a time when he's stood still or kept his mouth sealed--and I went to high school with him. Can you imagine what a headache he must have been for our teacher?

"I have good news for you fairies!"

You see what I mean?

"Want me to punch you?" said a surly Rafael.

"Are we taking votes?" Mary asked.

"No punching, please," I said. "What's the news, Zeke?"

Zeke invited himself to sit down with the three of us. He smelled oddly like cinnamon.

"I've got a foster kid waiting for you," he said. "She--"

It was all Rafael needed to hear. He might have jumped out of his seat if I hadn't held his arm, placating him. "How soon can she be here?"

"Well, uh," Zeke said. "Depends. She's had a lot of problems with her last homes, so..."

"We don't mind," I said. I knew how much Rafael wanted this. I wanted what he wanted. "We'd be happy to have her, Zeke."

"Okay. I'll give you her file tomorrow, and...hey! Holly, stop that!" Zeke leapt up from the ground and dashed away.

Colorful guy, that Zeke. Shame about his attention span.

Mary whistled suddenly, reminding me she was still with us. "Wow," she said. "My baby brother with a baby of his own. Poor kid's a goner..."

"Mary!" Rafael said.

I grinned.

It was well after midnight by the time Rafael and I headed home. The forest path was painted silver with moonlight, the tops of the beech trees rustling in shadow.

I think Rafael was in too much of a stupor to say anything just yet. But as we went inside the house, and I lit the oil lamps, and he tripped over his scrubs, his messy clothes still discarded in the middle of the front room floor, he suddenly erupted into a frenzy of conversation.

"Do you think she'll like the books I got her? I mean, what if she's not old enough to read them? Wait, what if she's too old to read them? Did Zeke say how old she is? What kind of music does she listen to? You think she has any allergies?"

I laid a hand on his arm, biting back a laugh. "I think we'll find out when we find out."

"How old do you think she is? What about her name?"

I suppressed a smile. "Should I consult my crystal ball?"

"Your what?"

"Never mind."

"What if she doesn't like us?"

"Rafael?"

"Yeah?"

"Calm down?"

"Okay."

He stalked off to the staircase at the back of the house. I didn't bother picking up his scrubs. I'm just as much of a slob as he is. Probably the biggest downside about two guys living together.

I lit the hearth in the sitting room. Nettlebush is hot during the day and cold during the night, no doubt influenced by the nearby desert. I checked and made sure the doors were locked; and I climbed the staircase to the second floor.

Poor Rafael. He hadn't gone to bed at all, but to the guest room--or the kid's room, I should say. The walls were painted a mint green, a tall bookcase stacked next to the window. Rafael plucked the books off the shelves, one by one, and dropped them to the floor.

"What are you doing?" I asked, leaning in the doorway.

"Getting rid of the scary ones."

When you first meet Rafael--hulking, scowling, and tattooed, his jaw square, his eyes mean--the last thing you expect him to be is neurotic. I shook my head slightly. I crossed the room--the carpet in bright pendleton shocks of red and blue--and pressed my hand against his back. I felt his muscles relaxing beneath my palm.

"Come to bed," I said. "Before your hair turns gray."

He actually ran his hand through his hair.

"Rafael," I said, trying to sound stern. Not that I actually sounded stern. I don't know how. "We have to pick up my father tomorrow morning. Remember?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, conceding defeat. He turned and slinked out of the room. He skulked across the hall.

I followed him into the bedroom. He hooked his glasses on the bedpost for safe-keeping. He wrestled with his shirt--tossing it violently aside--and shucked off his jeans. He lay on the bed beneath glass ornaments and a beadwork eagle.

I tugged off my vest and pulled on his t-shirt. His clothes are more comfortable to sleep in.

I lay down beside Rafael and observed him in the moonlight gleaming through the window. His eyes were open, roaming across the ceiling.

I touched his hand.

"Is your dad gonna live with Racine?" he asked.

I nodded before I realized he wasn't looking my way. Sometimes I still forget I can talk now. "They're married," I said. "That's what married people do."

The corner of his mouth tilted shyly. I love his shy smile. He flipped his hand beneath mine; our fingers tangled.

"Rafael?" I asked.

"I like it when you say my name," he muttered.

I smiled to myself. "Thank you."

"Stop thanking me."

"Okay."

I shifted on my side. He turned to face me. He squinted. He can't see very well without his glasses. He ruined his vision years ago when he used to read novels in the dead of the night, ignoring his uncle's orders to rest his eyes and go to sleep.

"Is it weird for you?" I asked.

Rafael's brows knitted together. "Is what weird for me?"

"Picking up my father tomorrow."

It's not like Dad had gone to prison for a parking violation. Dad's crime was blood law. Sanctified in the eyes of Plains People; illegal in the eyes of the USA.

Dad had gone to prison for murder. Years and years ago, my father had killed Rafael's.

"I told you," Rafael said. "I was never mad at him. He did the right thing. If somebody hurts your family, they're yours to deal with." He paused. "My dad...he hurt a lot of people."

I touched my throat. I wasn't aware of it until I felt the scars beneath my fingertips, rigid and raised.

Rafael must have been aware of it before I was. He took my hand in his and held it between us. He leaned over and kissed my neck. He's always doing that. I think he thinks he can kiss the scars away.

"I'd better start wearing turtlenecks again," I murmured absently.

"What? Why?"

I caught Rafael's gaze and smiled. Even in the darkness, he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"I don't want to scare our foster daughter," I said.

He looked like he was ready to protest. It's a true testament to how much he wanted a kid that he relented.

I felt another smile rising to my lips, a roguish smile. "And you'll have to stop listening to power metal."

He reacted as quick as a whip. "What?"

"Come on. That music's kind of scary for a kid."

"No it's not," he insisted.

" 'I am going to take your firstborn child and drown him'--you think that's appropriate for a kid to listen to?"

"That's Nightwish, dumbass. They haven't been power metal since 2002."

"Whatever you call it, it's got to go. Same for Tristania. And Moonsorrow. And that band with the scary growly vocals."

"Which one?" he said brashly.

"All of them. And the one with the pigs--whatsit--Pig Crusher--"

Rafael sat up in bed, his head hovering above mine; his long hair falling around my face, mingling with my curls, tickling my cheeks. "You just hate my music."

I raised my eyebrows. I smiled.

"Fine," he said irritably. "Then no more Cem Adrian."

"What's wrong with Cem Adrian?" I retaliated, and tried to sound hurt.

"I don't like him. You've been carrying out some secret emotional affair with the guy--"

"That was a joke, Rafael, a joke I made fifteen years ago--"

"Anyway, if I can't listen to metal, you can't listen to jazz--"

"If you're trying to tell me jazz is anywhere near as offensive as metal--"

Rafael straddled me. He tried to pin me by my shoulders. I was faster. I swiped the pillow out from under my head and smacked him with it.

"You son of a bitch," he said, a beautiful grin enveloping his face.

I tossed the pillow aside. I dragged my fingers up and down his waist. He burst into laughter and buried his face against the crook of my neck.

I love him. I love the warmth of him. I love the feel of his breath gliding across my skin; I love the way his body fits against mine when he wants it to. I love the way he stretches when he wakes up and his arm invariably smacks me in the face. I sound like a sappy teenage girl and I couldn't care less. There's not a single thing about that man that I would change. Not even his crappy taste in music.

He stilled against me. I trailed my hand across the contours of his back. I felt his bare skin shivering beneath my fingers.

He's got a tattoo on his back--the sun and the moon, simultaneous in a dual sky. I don't know how he put it there--long ago he used to complain that he couldn't reach--but I'd recognize his craftsmanship anywhere. It's auspicious, too. A marriage of the sun and moon means harmony. Long ago, when the sun and moon ruled together in the sky, there wasn't such a thing as death. Everyone lived together at once; and the planet didn't know what war looked like.

"Wasn't I going to thank you earlier?" I asked.

He lifted his head and looked at me. I traced his tattoos with my eyes. "Family" on the side of his neck. "Sky" across his collarbone.

"I told you to stop thanking me," he said. But I could see, in the pensive expression on his face, he was debating his options all the same.

"Are you sure?" I said. "Because once our kid gets here, we probably won't get to thank each other as often as we're used to."

That did the trick. "Damn," he said. He made no attempts to cover an opportunistic grin. "Yeah, you can thank me tonight."

2

Heavensend

You know what I really hate? Laundry.

I mean, when I was a kid, I was pretty confident that magical little worker sprites took care of the housework. The worst part about growing up is learning that the laundry doesn't do itself.

I knelt by the brook with my grandmother's old washboard and a heap of dirty clothing. Rafael's hospital scrubs in particular bore some suspiciously goopy stains. I wasn't sure I wanted to know where they had come from.

Ah, well. Into the water they went.

"Mr. St. Clair?"

I was midway through the washing when I heard my name. Fingers sore and cold, I set the washboard aside. I looked up just in time to greet a mousy, timid young woman in a gray pants suit.

"You could just call me Skylar," I said.

"Oh, um, yes," she said. She kept gazing about the site with ill-concealed fright, like she was expecting the black bears to jump out of hiding.

Poor Carole. Carole Svensen's a legal secretary--my legal secretary, I guess I should say, although it's kind of creepy to distribute personal pronouns like that. I think the state pays her salary; I have no idea. One day she showed up on my doorstep like a mail-order bride. She's been here ever since.

"Mr. St. Clair," she said, "I've come to pick up your proposals and revisions..."

"You came all the way out here for that?" I asked. I left the wet clothes on the ground--lazy, I know--and stood. "I could've just e-mailed them to you."

"Yes, but--" She winced. "But you never do."

"Do you want to stay for breakfast?" I asked.

"Um..."

I took Carole by the hand. I walked her around the side of the house, the weathervane creaking in the early morning wind.

Rafael was already in the kitchen, seated at the scrubbed pine table. The window above the icebox was thrown open, rosy dawn scattering pale pastel sunlight across the sunny yellow wallpaper.

His blood-encrusted hunting spear lay in the middle of the floor. Gross.

"Hi," he said to Carole. Or I think he did. His mouth was full. No manners, that Rafael.

"Do you want sagebread?" I asked Carole.

I doubt she even heard me. Her face drained of all color when she caught sight of Rafael's spear. She spun around and high-tailed it. To this day, I still don't know where she went.

Rafael swallowed whatever the heck he was chewing. "Weird," he said.

"If you're eating elk, I hope it's not raw," I said.

"What's wrong with eating it raw? My grandmother used to eat it raw all the time."

"The one with the claws?"

"No, the other one. The one who lives in Fort Hall."

"Oh, that grandmother."

"Yeah. She says the blood gives it flavor."

I gave him a blandly horrified look. I rested his spear across the brim of the wash basin and opened the icebox.

"Get me juniper tea?" he said.

"Is there a reason you didn't get it yourself?" I wondered.

"How am I supposed to know which one's juniper and which one's spicewood?"

"The labels?"

"Shut up, Sky."

I shot him an innocent smile. I handed him his tea.

After breakfast we locked up the house and followed the dirt path through the woods. Rafael tucked his hair behind his ear and rambled, for a while, about the foster kid. He was building her up so much, I was kind of worried he'd be disappointed if she didn't meet his expectations.

We walked through the reservation and out to the hospital parking lot. Nettlebush is small--its population never really rises above three hundred--so the hospital's parking lot gets treated like it's a residential parking lot. Most of us don't own our own cars, either. We only ever leave the reservation if it's for a pauwau, or something of that nature, so you tend to get two and three families packed into the same SUV.

Racine, DeShawn, and Jessica were standing outside a monstrous black SUV. It's actually Gabriel's car--Gabriel being Rafael's uncle.

"Good morning, Skylar," DeShawn said. He served a couple of tours in the military. He's sounded like a punctilious drill master ever since. "I think we'll make good time if we leave now."

"I'm driving," Rafael said.

"No way," Jessica said. "You drive so slow! And Sky just drives in circles. Let me drive, Rafael. Please?"

She's twenty-three, and she still knows how to pull the puppy dog eyes.

"Fine," Rafael grumbled, and handed her the keys.

She unlocked the car and we climbed on board. It's an eight-seater with a gray leather interior. Pretty spacious--not that anything's ever spacious enough for Rafael. I sat between him and Racine and he immediately started fidgeting. Sometimes I think he's claustrophobic.

I turned my back on Rafael and faced Racine. "How are you?" I asked.

Racine's my step-mother. She's really cute, too--short, stout, and she hardly ever ages. Her hair's crazy, curly, and for a time I used to joke that I'd inherited mine from hers. You need only to look at us to know how unlikely that is.

Racine gave me a wan smile. I was willing to bet she felt just as nervous as I did. "What's this I hear about you adopting a kid?"

Jessica pulled us out of the parking lot while DeShawn blathered in his sister's ear.

I smiled sheepishly. "It's not set in stone," I said. "But we do have a foster kid coming our way."

Rafael let out a nervous little moan. I elbowed him.

"Boy or girl?" Racine asked.

"Girl," I said. "We don't know anything else just yet. We're picking up her file later."

The desert breezed past our windows, golden and hazy, bright orange blossoms and brown berries clustered underneath the burnt, bronze hills. The highways rolled lazily by, route after route, trucks and turnpikes their ever-faithful companions.

"Wilmot Road," Rafael said to Jessica, leaning forward in his seat.

"I know, I know. Stop backseat driving," Jessica returned.

The penitentiary complex was at the end of Wilmot Road, just past a pair of gravelly train tracks. From the outside, the double buildings were grand and arching, like something out of a modern palace. The inside, I knew from experience, was a lot more depressing.

Jessica parked the car beside a towering flagpost. We climbed out, the five of us, and she locked up.

"Boy," said DeShawn, staring up the length of the main building. "I'd hate to be trapped in there..."

"DeShawn..." Jessica said.

"Right, sorry," he murmured.

We walked the white walkway to the visitors' doors--tall, spotless glass. We headed inside the lobby, the floor the color of gray sludge.

It kind of creeped me out that this place hadn't changed at all in the past fifteen years. The walls were still scratchy and white and adorned with old portraits of former wardens. The side doors still looked like they belonged to a child's plastic play set.

"Hey," Racine said to the receptionist. "Paul Looks Over?"

The receptionist typed on her keyboard. "One second."

She directed us to the benches against either of the stark white walls. The five of us sat together and waited.

Rafael scowled. "I think I'm sitting on gum."

"Sweet, save some for me," Jessica quipped.

One of the side doors opened at last. And out through the door walked my father.

It was surreal to see him wearing jeans and a green sweater. For the past fifteen years I'd never seen him outside of a bright orange jumpsuit. Nor had we ever stood face-to-face. I'd hated that, sitting across the visitors' table from him, knowing he couldn't hug me even if he wanted to. He wasn't sitting now. He was standing--slouched--withered. My heart broke in two. He used to be paunchy; now he was thinner than me. His gray eyes were tired, wintry, and closed off. His sleek black hair was peppered with gray. How old he looked. How many years he'd lost to this place.

I stood slowly.

"Cubby," Dad said, and reached for me.

I felt like a child again. I put my arms around him; I hugged him as tightly as I knew how. His arms wrapped around me, arms that used to make me feel small, and safe. I could feel tremors in his arms.

My father used to be a strong man.

I stepped back and cleared my throat. I smiled. "Hi, Dad."

"Listen to you," Dad said. His face was melancholy--but his face was always melancholy. Even in my childhood, I'd seldom seen him change expressions. Much of Dad's life has been sad. "Your voice. It's so good to hear your voice..."

Rafael cleared his throat. "Hi, sir," he said.

"You don't have to call me that," Dad said. "You're my son-in-law."

I stepped back so Racine could hug Dad. The way he put his head on her shoulder warmed me; and at the same time, it made me feel like I could cry. She kissed him on the cheek, tremulous. She looked like she might cry, too.

"Uncle Paul, congratulations!" DeShawn said.

Jessica reached for a hug, hopping on her soles. Jessica never stands still for long; too much energy bursting through her seams. Dad smothered what would have been a chuckle were he any other man. He gave Jessica a quick hug. "Thank you," he said to DeShawn. He looked so tired. He looked so old. I noticed the small plastic bag wrapped around his hand--all that was left of his belongings. "I'd be very happy to leave here now."

I smiled again, muted, subdued. I felt happy; I felt sad. "Say no more," I said.

"I'm driving," Jessica announced.

"Amazing," Dad said. "You're driving now. I remember when you didn't even reach my knees..."

"She still doesn't," Racine joked.

"Hey," Jessica protested, but without a frown.

The six of us readily left the drab building. I waved to the receptionist in passing. We piled out onto the white pavement, Rafael leading the way to the SUV.

"Dad," I said, "how about we go out for lunch?"

Dad stiffened. Was it nerves? "If it's not the reservation..."

I knew what he was thinking. He had been released on a technicality--the technicality that the federal government had no authority to arrest him on reservation soil.

"They're not going to arrest you again," I said, my hand on his shoulder. "That's double jeopardy. They can't convict you twice for the same crime."

But for all that I tried to encourage him, his shoulder was tense beneath my hand; his eyes were difficult to read.

We got into the car, the six of us, and rode the interstate to Tucson, a relatively short drive. Racine picked out a diner with checkered tablecloths and a soft serve fountain. We squashed ourselves into the booths and ordered eggs and toast and tomatoes, Rafael and Jessica prodding each other over arm space.

I looked discreetly across the tabletop at Dad. I thought he must have been happy to be out in the open--after all these years--but he didn't look happy to me. He looked shrunken. Defeated. His hands, once pawlike, were fragile on his fork. His fingers were brittle and thin. It was the worst thing I'd ever seen.

When he set down his coffee mug, I reached for his hand and grasped it. He smiled fleetingly at me and looked away.

In the Shoshone world, reticence is placed on a kind of bizarre pedestal. Most Shoshone are raised with the idea that it's annoying if you talk to other people about your feelings. Dad embodied that ideal. Fifteen years in hell, and he acted like he'd only just gone to the grocery store.

"So, Uncle Paul," DeShawn attempted, bless his heart. "You ought to join the tribal council."

Dad looked surprised. "Why do you say that?"

"With Stuart out in Idaho all the time--and Mrs. Red Clay's retired--well, I think you know the interests of the reservation pretty well, don't you...?"

"Fairly well," Dad said mildly.

"DeShawn's on the reservation police," Jessica said, rolling her eyes.

"Want to see my pager?" DeShawn said.

"Nobody wants to see that," Jessica said.

Racine's hand dropped underneath the table. I think she was reaching for Dad's. I hope he gave it to her.

"Still a speech therapist, Rafael?" Dad asked.

"Huh? Oh, yeah," he said. "Sometimes. Not like we've got a bunch of mute kids running around the reserve or anything."

"I ought to thank you for what you did with Cubby's voice. Regrowing vocal cords; who knew..."

"I didn't really do much. It's just that there's a lot of lamina inside the umbilical cord. It's really Charity who did everything."

Charity was Rafael's little cousin. It was her umbilical cord that had restored my voice. Rafael had figured out years ago that human vocal folds are made of lamina--and so is the umbilical vein.

"Speaking of talking," Racine said. "Skylar, you've got that guest lecture in August? ASU?"

I pulled a silly face. "I don't remember school starting so early when I was that age."

"But that was a very, very, very, very long time ago," Jessica said sweetly.

I reached across Rafael's shoulders and swatted at her.

DeShawn peeped at me curiously from Racine's other side. "How is that going to work?" he asked. "If you're taking care of a foster kid full time--"

Dad lifted his head. "Foster kid?"

I kind of felt like this was too much information for one afternoon. He'd only just got out of prison, after all.

"Um, yeah," Rafael said. "You know Zeke Owns Forty?"

"Luke's kid?" Dad asked.

"Yeah, him. He's a social worker nowadays. Anyway, he signed Sky and me up as foster parents a while ago."

"I didn't know," Dad said. I couldn't read his face. I thought he might have been surprised. "Congratulations."

"Yeah. I mean, thanks."

Dad looked at me, and for a moment, I thought there was light in his eyes. "Are you going to make grandparents out of us?" he asked. "I feel like I aged twenty years in the past few minutes."

"Speak for yourself," Racine said.

"Not you, of course," Dad said fondly. "You're as beautiful as when I first met you."

"Black doesn't crack, Uncle Paul," Jessica said.

We stayed for a little while, chatting, and I felt like the atmosphere returned slowly to normal. Dad didn't want any dessert, so we left money on the table and headed back outside.

The ride back to Nettlebush was--I thought--comparatively pleasant. Dad and DeShawn talked back and forth about the upcoming pauwau in July. Pauwaus are great; tribes from all over America get together to celebrate their music, their dancing, their similarities and their differences. I was happy Dad would finally get to join in on the festivities.

Jessica parked the car outside the reservation hospital. We piled out of the car, one after another, the afternoon air crisp and warm.

Dad looked around at the pine trees; at the log cabin standing opposite the dirt road; at the old wooden sign whose message read, "No Cars Beyond This Point." His face was frozen, his gray eyes as still as winter water. For a moment, I was afraid he would cry.

I should have known better. Dad never cries. Not in front of other people.

I put my hand on Dad's shoulder. "Why don't we go out on the lake?"

He smiled at me wearily. "Maybe later," he said. "I think I'd like to lie down."

Racine put her arm around Dad. "We'll see you at dinner, right?"

"Yes ma'am," Rafael said.

Racine rolled her eyes. "Stop making me feel like I'm sixty."

"Seven years, Mom," Jessica said. "Only seven years to go... Muahahaha..."

The six of us parted ways for the afternoon. Immediately I felt cold, and sort of odd. I watched Dad's receding back, hunched, his arm around Racine's waist. I couldn't help thinking that prison had eaten away a part of his soul. Dad used to have endless stamina. Twelve trips a day across the Sonoran Desert, back when he worked as a coyote, and he never needed a nap then.

"You alright?" Rafael asked me.

I smiled noncommittally.

"He'll be okay," Rafael said. "He's strong. And he's got you. Not like he needs much more than that."

I gave him a warm look. "You really know how to inflate my head, Rafael."

Rafael grinned unrepentantly. "Keep saying my name. I still like it."

Rafael said he had to help his uncle hand out the morning game. He waved a quick goodbye and started north toward the badlands. I didn't know what else to do with myself--and I hate restlessness--so I took a trip out west to see if Annie needed any help.

I found her at the stove in the farm manor, her brother and sister at her sides.

"Oh, now you show your face," Annie said to me.

I grinned roguishly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Joseph turned around at the stove. Slender and slight--and Jessica's age--his hair was the same shade of burnt brown as Annie's. A pair of hearing aids rested in his ears.

Catfish come out yet? I signed.

Joseph shook his head. After the monsoon.

Lila sighed and moved a pot off the stove. Save for a few years' difference, she could have been Annie's twin. She was tall, though, where Annie was short. And definitely not pregnant.

"Don't bother me, peon," she said to me--signing while she spoke. None of us likes to leave Joseph out of the loop. "You haven't bothered visiting me in two days. I don't need your pity visits now."

I still love you, I signed. I don't have the presence of mind to sign and talk at the same time. Signing's easier, anyway.

Your dad came home, right? Joseph signed, his index fingers pointed in opposite directions. Morgan Stout's been saying so.

Morgan's an idiot, Lila signed.

"We don't need your help here," Annie told me.

I frowned, feigning offense.

"Oh, please," Annie said. "Go outside, the men could use you out back."

I kissed her cheek--then Lila's, Lila's eyes big and simpering. Joseph clapped me on the shoulder while I went back through the foyer--and from there, around the back of the house.

The plotted farm was rolling and vast beneath blue skies. Scarecrows stood between the hilled soil. I bit back a smile. In the old days, Plains People didn't use scarecrows, of course--they pitched tents right in the middle of the crops and chased the crows away by foot, sometimes squawking and screaming while they ran. It must have been a funny sight.

"Skylar! Over here!"

I climbed across the rows of hilled earth, cucumbers and okra poking out of the fresh brown dirt. Aubrey and his brothers were standing on the other side.

Aubrey was one weedy beansprout of a guy. His Coke bottle glasses were taped to his ears; because, of course, they tended to fly off his face while he was busy working. Next to him were his older brothers--Reuben tall and stoic, Isaac dark-eyed and mean-faced.

"Is Zeke with you?" Aubrey asked.

"Why would Zeke be with me?" I asked, puzzled.

"Oh? He said he was getting another spade. I guess he took off..."

"I'll get it," I said with a wave of my hand.

"Get me one, too!" said Serafine, Reuben's daughter.

I took a quick trip to the tool shed on the eastern side of the farm manor. I came back to the sight of Nicholas and Leon, Aubrey's sons, patting the crop hills with their stubby hands.

"A rake would be faster, I think," Aubrey counseled them kindly.

"I don't want to use that stupid thing," Nicholas said. It still strikes me as odd that a little boy who looks so much like his father could have such a different countenance.

"Well, here," Aubrey said. He showed me which plots we were going to till, the seed crates sitting by the canal gates. "And the spinach and the sugarcane can go there," he said, and gestured with a sweep of his hand.

"Let's just get it over with already," Isaac said.

We dragged spades through the hard, caked earth, freeing the fresh soil underneath. I'm not at all built for farm work; my arms were aching by the time I started on the second plot. Serafine pouted and huffed. Her father wouldn't let her use the heavy tools and had her planting the seeds instead.

"Hey! You!"

And here came Zeke, stumbling and staggering through the field, a manila envelope in his hand, the bottoms of his work pants muddy.

I stifled a laugh. "Did you get lost on your way to the tool shed?"

"Huh?" It went right over his head. "Where's Rafael?"

"At Gabriel's," I said.

Reuben sat on the ground and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Isaac trudged over to the canal gates and opened them. I tossed the rakes aside, grabbed the kids by their hands, and pulled them away from the trickling water.

"Oh," Zeke said. "Annie said you stopped by. I thought he was with you." He waved the manila envelope at me. "Want it?"

Aubrey squawked and jabbered like an excited prairie chicken. "Is that your kid?"

"No, dumbass!" Zeke said. "That's an envelope."

Isaac shot him a dark look. I couldn't really blame him at the moment.

"Let's see it!" Aubrey said, eager and kindhearted.

"Without Rafael?" I reminded him.

"Oh. Right..." Aubrey slouched, but straightened his shoulders in the very same breath. "Show us at dinner, then! Ah, just think, there could be a little Gives Light-St. Clair baby in there... Erm, wait a minute, did Rafael ever change his name?"

Southern Shoshone are matrilineal; the kid always takes the mother's surname, and generally the father does, too. "Wait," I said, catching on. "Are you calling me a woman?"

"--Anyway, we're done here, so let's head back inside!"

I shook my head and pretended to take a swing at him. We dropped our tools off at the shed and went inside the house for a quick drink.

"You'll give them a baby, but not me?" Holly At Dawn said sourly. She was Daisy's twin sister--there was no mistaking their curved falcon noses and their wavy ringlets--and Zeke's fiancee. In Nettlebush, we only get married during autumn, part of an old superstition we borrowed from the Paiute. These two had four long months ahead of them.

I rolled up my sleeve and glanced at my wristwatch. "I think I'm going to check on Dad," I said.

Reuben nodded politely. "Tell him hello from me," Serafine said, and "Fine, I didn't want you around here anyway," Holly said. Holly's definitely a pleasant girl.

Racine and Dad lived on the other side of the lake, in a low, two-story house with a nice view of the shore. I can still remember when Dad built the house years ago, his shy, roundabout way of asking Racine to stay with him.

I knocked on their door--I probably should have showered first, I thought--and two seconds later, Dad faced me in the doorway.

He looked haggard. He looked far away. His eyes were out of focus. He barely seemed aware that I was facing him. At least until he rubbed his eyes.

"Cubby?"

"Hi, Dad," I said quietly. I made sure to smile.

He shook his head with disbelief. "I still can't believe you're talking again. After all these years... You don't know how much I missed your voice."

I knew. I knew because I had missed it, too. Just the simplest things--exchanging pleasantries with a friend, telling a family member how much I loved them--the simplest things were a Heavensend.

"I just wish Granny had been around for it," I admitted.

A small silence passed between us, carried on the summer breeze.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here for her passing," Dad said, closing his eyes.

"Don't be," I said gently. "Granny understood. She always defended what you've done. And she didn't die alone. She knew she was loved."

Dad sat down on the parched lawn outside his front door. I sat with him.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice very quiet. "Not about that. I mean... I don't know that she felt loved by me."

I was somewhat surprised at the turn this conversation was taking. Was Dad talking about his feelings for once? I didn't want to discourage him, so I didn't interrupt.

"We never quite got along," Dad mumbled. "Ever since Julius died..."

Julius was Dad's little brother. Uncle Julius had died as a five-year-old, more than forty years ago.

And I still didn't know how Uncle Julius had died. There had been an unspoken rule, growing up, that we didn't talk about him. Or about my mother.

I placed my hand on Dad's arm, carefully.

"We were playing," Dad said. "Julius and I. There's a grotto out in the woods; I don't know if you've ever seen it... And the most beautiful willow tree."

His profile betrayed none of his heartache; his hands were folded, but his fingers were shaking. His fingers had been shaking ever since we brought him home.

"I thought he was annoying," Dad said. "You know how kids are... He loved me, and he tagged around after me like he was my shadow. I thought he was a pain. I wanted him to leave me alone. So I gave him a dare. I told him, 'I bet you can't climb that willow tree.' "

My heart felt cold in my chest.

Dad bowed his head over his hands. But he didn't cry. He never cried in front of me.

"She blamed me," Dad said. "And I blamed myself. And I still do."

"Dad," I said, afraid to raise my voice--afraid to deter him. "You were a child."

"There's no excuse for it," he said. "He was my little brother--my responsibility--and I failed him. I failed my wife, I failed my son...even failed my best friend..."

"No," I said. "You didn't." I can't tell you how glad I was to have a voice. All the things I'd wanted to say to him since I was a child--I could finally say them. "You raised me. We're not even related, and you raised me like I was your own."

"You are my own," Dad said.

"My mom cheated on you--lied about it--and you still did what you could do avenge her memory."

"I don't want you holding that against her..."

"A man swept through this reservation, completely terrorizing everyone--he killed seven women--and when you found out he was your friend, you still put his victims first."

"I had to. That's blood law."

"Dad," I said.

He looked at me.

"Your mother loved you," I said. "I love you. More than anything."

He bowed his head again. I thought his lips were trembling. I tried not to look too closely. I didn't want to embarrass him.

He lifted his head at last. His eyes reached into mine.

"I hope this works out for you," he said. "Your foster child. I hope you love her, and I hope you adopt her. You can't possibly understand how much I love you until you have a child of your own."

I was the one who felt a little embarrassed. "You're sure you want to be a grandfather?" I joked.

"Very sure. I'll teach her all about topography. I'll teach her the Apache fiddle."

Eventually Racine came outside and insisted we join her for a cup of spicewood tea. Dad accepted, but I declined; I still had files to send to Carole, wherever the heck she had gone. I waved goodbye for the remainder of the afternoon and headed home.

And on the walk home I thought about Uncle Julius, chilled to my core. Small wonder Dad and Granny had never discussed his parting in front of me. This secret that Dad had carried for so many years--a burden all its own... Why hadn't he told me sooner? Maybe I could have helped him. Maybe I could have comforted him.

In the front room I found Rafael on the hardwood floor with Charity, Charity showing him her summer book report.

"Hi, Skylar," Charity said warmly. She's the sweetest kid there is. Round-faced like her mother; tawny-haired like her father; cheeks dimpled like Rafael's. Hard to believe she's already fifteen. "I'm entering the raft race this season. You'll root for me, right?"

"I wouldn't dare root for anybody else," I promised.

Rafael tucked his hair behind his ear and squinted at Charity's papers from behind his glasses. Maybe he needed a stronger prescription. "Mr. Red Clay's not gonna like this," he said. "He wants everything double-spaced these days."

"Mr. Siomme, Rafael," Charity said patiently.

"Yeah, yeah," Rafael said. "Go get a drink or something. You're making me thirsty just sitting there."

Charity giggled and ran into the adjoining kitchen.

"What's that?" Rafael said. He'd just now caught sight of the folder in my hand.

I sat next to Rafael, legs folded. My legs looked oddly pudgy to me. I wondered whether I was gaining weight. "Zeke gave it to me," I said, barely capable of smothering my smile. "He--"

Rafael didn't wait to hear what I had to say. He snatched the envelope from me with unparalleled frenzy. I laughed openly. Rafael pulled out the papers inside.

He sucked in his breath.

"Well?" I said, and waited.

Rafael's eyes flitted back and forth across the paper. "Her name's Michaela," he said. "Michaela Morales."

I whistled. "We've got ourselves a little Latina."

"Huh?"

"Keep reading."

He did. "She's ten," he said.

"That's a good age," I said.

"Yeah. Says her mom's in prison..."

Well, that was unpleasant.

"Says she comes from a pretty abusive home. Court-ordered therapy a few years ago."

"I'd expected something like that," I admitted.

"She's got heterozygous beta-thalassemia."

"Oh, what's that?"

"It's a blood thing, a kind of anemia. Just means she needs to eat iron." Rafael stopped reading for a second. "This kid's been in eleven foster homes in three years."

I smiled ruefully. "Zeke hinted at that."

Rafael lowered the file. He looked across at me.

"What if she's, like...a terror? And she murders us in our sleep?"

"Are you sure you're not exaggerating?" I said, trying to mollify him. "If she were violent, it would say so in her file."

Rafael scanned it again, quickly. "It doesn't say," he admitted.

"Then she's not violent." I touched his arm briefly. "She probably has emotional problems."

"Then what do we do?" he asked.

"Be patient with her," I said, "and think constantly about her needs. That she's been through so many homes means a lot of people gave up on her. It would be nice to show her we won't turn her backs on her. Don't you think?"

For a moment, Rafael was so silent, I could hear Charity crunching on cornmeal cookies in the next room over.

"Damn," Rafael said. "Am I glad you can finally talk."

3

Touchy Uncle Sal

It was a Sunday morning. A day of rest, as far as Nettlebush was concerned, but I guess the law stops for nothing.

I tugged on the collar of my turtleneck and winced at the computer screen.

Oliphant v. Suquamish Indian Tribe, I typed on the keyboard, and immediately felt my brain melting to slush. An intellectual I am not. Why did I choose law? Why didn't I choose picketing, or goat herding, or paranormal investigation? Why didn't I become an astronaut?

Do you know about the Mark David Oliphant case in 1978? Mark David Oliphant was a non-Native living on a Native American reservation. That happens sometimes; in my experience, most tribes are pretty open to people from different races. But that's not the point. This guy was a Grade A Jackass. He walked around getting into fights, beating up women--he even beat up a tribal police officer. So the tribal police arrested him on battery charges. Makes sense to me.

Didn't make sense to the rest of the country. The Supreme Court butted in and came up with this new law--or, well, a new interpretation of the old law. But whatever you want to call it, it's disgusting, and it still baffles me that anybody agreed to it.

In 1978, the Supreme Court decided that the Suquamish tribe didn't have the power to charge Mr. Oliphant because he's white.

An axe murderer could show up in Nettlebush tomorrow, and as long as he's white, we're not allowed to stop him. And if we stop him, we're the ones who go to prison.

Did I mention this happened in 1978?

There are about a thousand different reasons I hate this law. The axe murderer scenario is only one of them. Did you know 35% of all Native women are going to be assaulted if they leave their reservation? It's like their attackers know they can get away with it. And when I think about it, I guess they do. It's a virtual free-for-all.

If I could just convince a judge to overturn that ridiculous ruling--

"Damn it!"

I turned off the computer monitor and spun around.

Rafael stormed into the front room looking frazzled and frustrated. At once I felt very sorry for him.

"My grandmother's visiting the reserve this summer," Rafael told me. He sat heavily on the rocking chair that stood next to the kitchen doorway. "Uncle Gabe just said so."

I tilted my head. "Is there a reason we're not happy about that?"

"Grandma Gives Light? She's insane. She's like a shrieking, two-headed harpy."

"The one who eats raw elk?"

"Yeah, that one. Heads up, she only speaks Shoshone."

"Oh, that's okay."

Rafael groaned. "It's not okay," he said. "I was scared stiff of her when I was a kid. Mary always said--"

I think his sister Mary has psychic powers. I really do. She walked in on us just then and whistled--followed closely by her longtime girlfriend, a Navajo woman named Kaya.

"Did you hear?" Mary said. She had the air about her of a gleeful demon. "Grandma Gives Light's coming over! Raffy, remember that time she poured cold water in your ears because you ate candy before dinner?"

Rafael moaned miserably.

"Hi, Kaya," I said politely.

"Hello, Skylar." Man, that woman is chic. She could make an apron look like a fashion statement. "When are you visiting Three Suns?"

"November, hopefully."

"Yaadi la," Kaya said with disapproval. "Our reservations are so close to one another. There's no excuse."

"Cold water, Kaya!" Mary went on. Clearly she was ecstatic about this arrangement. "And she told off a state trooper once when she was speeding--"

"Did she really?"

"Yeah, but she only speaks Shoshone, like hell he knew what she was saying--"

"Ah, Shoshone."

"Masukwih! Yuhupippuh!"

"Please," I said, "make yourselves at home."

"Don't mind if I do," Mary said. She shoved Rafael off of his rocking chair and took his place.

"Hey!"

Siblings are siblings, I guess. It doesn't matter how old they are. Put them in the same room and they revert to two-year-olds.

Mary and Kaya stuck around for lunch. Kaya told us about her latest forays in the anthropology department at Dine University while Mary pretended to snore. It was all about the music for Mary; telling her that no one was interested in signing a Native American metal band wouldn't change her mind.

"They're kind of like us," Rafael said when they had left.

I laughed, bewildered. "What the heck do you mean?"

"Kaya's nice and smart and Mary's a dumbass."

"Don't talk about yourself that way, Rafael," I chided.

"I meant you were the dumbass, dumbass."

I checked my watch. I loaded our dishes in the wash basin for later. Rafael tensed immediately.

"It's time already?" he asked.

I smiled, hoping to encourage him. "It's fine," I said. "Just relax. It's going to be fine."

He mumbled something that sounded oddly like "Grandma."

Rafael and I left the house together, my hand on his back, and walked across the trodden dirt path. I could hear William Has Two Enemies' children playing among the alder trees. Rafael drew a deep breath and I wrapped my hand around his.

We walked out to the communal firepit. Zeke was already waiting for us there--along with a scruffy-looking little girl.

It's weird how nervous I suddenly felt. Usually I leave the nerves up to Rafael. But this little girl--I don't know. She may as well have been the ambassador to the UN, for all that I was suddenly terrified of her. Her hair was long, brown, and straight, her curly little snub nose dusted with freckles. Her jeans looked two sizes too big for her and her shirt said, "Stop Looking at Me." I guessed the backpack on her back carried her only possessions.

"Hey, morons," Zeke said. "Okay? This is Michaela."

Rafael's mouth opened and closed like a witless fish. I elbowed him and he jolted.

I smiled at Michaela. "I'm Skylar. He's Rafael."

"Weird," she said.

Heaven help me, I thought, my nerves dissipating. I could fall in love with this kid.

"Ah, man, I've gotta head downtown," Zeke said. "I'll see you princesses later! Michaela, don't be a brat in front of them."

Zeke turned around and darted off. Michaela didn't acknowledge him.

I elbowed Rafael again. No response.

"Come on," I said to Michaela. "You can come back to our house. I bet Zeke didn't even give you a snack, did he?"

"Are you really Indians?"

"Uh," Rafael said. He coughed. "Yeah, we are."

Michaela pointed at me. "Why's he blond?"

"My mother listened to a lot of pop music," I said.

It was a joke, but I guess it wasn't a very good one. It went right over her head.

"Why's your voice raspy?" she asked me.

"My father's Clint Eastwood," I said.

"Who?"

"Dirty Harry?"

"Harry Potter?"

What's wrong with this generation?

"Uh," Rafael said.

Michaela fixed him with a hard, unimpressed look. "Do you talk, or do you just grunt?"

"That's the thing," I said, hoping to spare Rafael's feelings. "He's part bull."

She didn't laugh.

"Come on," I said. "Bet you had a long ride."

Michaela followed us in silence down the forest path. The robins and the grackles were spirited in their treetops; occasionally I saw her looking around with what I thought might be curiosity. Poor Rafael kept staring at the back of her head like he didn't know what to do with her. I threw an arm around his shoulders when he wasn't looking. He turned his head to glance at me and I winked.

I threw open the front door--I hadn't locked it, but you don't usually worry about those things in Nettlebush--and Michaela stepped inside. She dropped her backpack on the floor and looked around.

"It's like a log cabin," she said.

"It is a log cabin," I said. "When this reservation first started, everybody lived in tipis. Once they realized the arrangement was a little more permanent, they started cutting down trees."

"Where's the bathroom?"

"There's a door through the kitchen," I said, and pointed. "Outhouse."

Michaela gave me a very weird look. I returned it with a silly one. She shrugged and trundled off.

"She doesn't like me," Rafael mumbled, after we heard the outhouse door slap shut.

"Don't be silly," I returned calmly. "She doesn't even know you yet."

I heard the creaking of the water pump outside the cabin; and then Michaela walked out from under the kitchen archway, her eyes shifting.

"Why doesn't it flush?" she asked.

"It drains," I said. "You're fine, hon."

Rafael was dead silent.

"Okay," I said. "How much did Zeke tell you about this reservation?"

Michaela scrunched up her face. "The foster worker guy? I never know what he's saying. He always sounds like he's screaming in the middle of a mosh pit."

Rafael suddenly stood up straight. I suppressed the urge to groan. Not another metal fan.

"We're Shoshone," I said. "And we probably do things a little differently from your last foster home. Like dinner. We all eat dinner together at nighttime. I mean, all three hundred of us."

"Not on Sundays, though," Rafael said. I guessed he was feeling a little more confident now that he knew they both listened to the same crappy music.

"Where's your refrigerator?" Michaela said. "I didn't see it."

"We don't have one," I explained.

"Yeah, we use an insulated cellar," Rafael said. "It keeps everything fresh, but it doesn't use electricity."

Michaela raised her eyebrow imperiously.

"Your bedroom's upstairs and on the right," I said. "You can check it out later. Do you want something to eat?"

"My bedroom?" Michaela said.

"What about?"

"You mean, I'm not sharing with four and five other kids? Or Touchy Uncle Sal?"

Well, that was very... "No," I said. "No foster kids. No Touchy Uncle Sal. It's your room."

Her eyes darting in her head reminded me of a fox's shrewd gaze. No doubt she was critically analyzing whatever we'd said, trying to find the trap in it. But I guess she didn't find one, because she shrugged.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm hungry."

"Come on," I said.

She picked up her backpack and followed us into the kitchen. She sat down on a scrubbed pine chair and watched us with calculating eyes.

"Want to try cornmeal cookies?" I asked.

She gave me a jerky little half-nod.

I opened the cabinet above the wood-coal stove. I took out a tied cellophane bag and set it on the table. Michaela peered at it; she twisted it open and reached inside.

"What do you like to drink?" I asked. "Milk? Juice?"

"Juice," she said.

I gave Rafael a meaningful look. Was he just going to stand there all day?

He must have caught the gist of my glance. He strode across the kitchen and opened the icebox.

I noticed Michaela sneaking cookies into her backpack. I can't explain why that made me feel so sad.

"Hey," I said. She quickly dropped her backpack and sat up straight. "Have you ever been on a raft before?"

She hesitated. "What's that?"

Rafael set a glass of elderberry juice on the table in front of her. "It's like a boat," he said. "Only you don't sit in it. You sit on it. Every year we have a raft race in June."

"What do you think?" I said.

Michaela chewed slowly on a cornmeal cookie. Her eyes, sharp and brown, pierced right through me.

She swallowed.

"Let's not kid ourselves," she said. I'm surprised my jaw didn't drop open. "I'm only here until you get sick of me and kick me to the curb."

I looked to Rafael.

Rafael cleared his throat. "We're not kicking you out," he said. "You can stay as long as you want."

"Even if I go crazy and start smashing all the windows?"

"I'd prefer it if you didn't," I said, "but yes, even if you go crazy and start smashing all the windows."

"I don't believe you," Michaela said.

"Then go ahead," I said. "Smash a window."

"He's joking," Rafael said quickly.

"I'm not," I replied. "I put the windows together. It wouldn't be too difficult to make new ones. I should warn you, though," I said to Michaela, "whatever you break, you're cleaning up the mess."

She seemed to consider her options.

"I'm good," she said, grimacing. She took another cookie.

When she had finished eating, she trailed upstairs to get a look at her room. I started cleaning up around the kitchen. Rafael raked his hands through his hair.

"Would you relax?" I said.

"I don't know what to do with her. I thought I'd know what to do. I thought it would be like dealing with Charity."

"Charity's not your daughter," I said. "She's your sister." Well, cousin. Shoshone regard their cousins as though they're siblings. "That's a very different matter from being responsible for a child. Give it time, Rafael. You didn't love me at first sight, did you?"

"No," he said. "But I thought you were hot."

"I'll never understand you," I said, warmed.

That was when I heard it--a loud crash upstairs.

I don't think Rafael or I wasted a second tearing out of the kitchen and up to the second floor. We threw open Michaela's door, the door already ajar. And there she was, standing by the bookcase, a book-shaped hole in the window.

"Sorry," she murmured. "It slipped."

Rafael's face went from bewildered to outrageous in a matter of seconds. I squeezed his arm.

"That's fine," I told Michaela. "You can sleep in the sitting room until I fix it."

She nodded.

"Go downstairs," I said. "There's a dustpan in the closet. You can clean up the glass."

I wish I could say the rest of the day went smoothly. Oh, there weren't any more broken windows--not that I'm aware of--but for the most part, Michaela holed herself up in her room and only ever came outside if she needed the outhouse. Except for a visit from the jittering Carole Svensen, the tedium remained uninterrupted.

Dad and Racine stopped by for dinner. So did Rafael's aunt and uncle, Rosa and Gabriel.

Gabriel was nearing his fifties, but his honest, friendly face was as youthful as when I'd first met him. Rosa, too, reminded me of a child's cornhusk doll; sweet, innocent, wiser than words.

"Hey, Ro," Racine said. "Where's Charity?"

"With Mary," Rosa said meekly.

"You sure she's still alive?" Rafael said sourly.

Dad, Racine, and Gabriel went into the sitting room to listen to the radio. Rosa and Rafael helped me cook. Rafael and I aren't exactly what you'd call culinary experts, so I guess I should say Rosa took the helm. Mostly I just let those two handle whatever dishes involved meat. I don't eat meat, so I'm certainly not going to take part in cooking it.

"How is the little girl?" Rosa asked.

"She broke a window," Rafael muttered.

Rosa looked quickly his way.

"She's been through a lot," I said. "She just needs time to settle in. I'm sure she's still convinced we're going to abandon her."

"But we're not," Rafael said.

"She doesn't know that yet," I said. "Give her time."

We set the table with corn soup and wild rose blossom and wojapi. I tried not to vomit when Rosa set out the pan-seared elk. Dad and Racine and Gabriel finally came around.

"Anything good on the radio?" I asked.

"No," Dad said glumly. "Toros struck out."

The two things Dad's most passionate about are baseball and cats. I don't know whether they let him watch baseball while he was in prison, but I'd imagine it's not the same as enjoying it with your friends.

"I'm gonna go get Michaela," Rafael muttered.

He didn't have to. She poked her head into the kitchen, looking confused.

"Who are all these people?" Michaela asked.

Everyone collectively stopped talking. The way they stared at her, I hoped she wouldn't turn tail and run.

"Michaela," I said, "this is my father."

"Hello," Dad said awkwardly. He's one very awkward guy.

"And my step-mother, Racine."

"How's it going?" Racine said.

"Wait," Michaela said, screwing up her face. She turned on me. "Your dad's Indian. Your mom's black. Why are you white?"

"Why?" I asked. "Why not?"

She didn't have an answer.

"Hi, Michaela," Gabriel said cheerfully. "I'm Rafael's uncle."

"Hello," Rosa said shyly.

Michaela didn't respond. I'm not sure she knew what to make of all this.

"You know," Gabriel said, glancing at the open window. "It's a nice evening. Why don't we sit outside instead?"

We all of us spent the next few minutes gathering our trays and pots and dishes and carrying them out the front door. A patch of dwindling twilight sun shone on the smooth ground by the brook, the sky hazy and hyacinthine, shades of violet settling atop the silver clouds and chasing away the blue. The last of the robins called to us from the safety of his beech home. The first and faintest of the nightly winds tousled the pale yellow creosote bushes and tickled the wild pink centauries.

Michaela sat cross-legged on the ground. "What's that?" she said, and pointed at the wojapi.

"It's like pudding," I told her. "But it's made from berries." And healthy, I thought, but no way was I going to say that out loud. I know how much kids hate the H word. I spooned wojapi onto Michaela's plate. "Try it."

She dipped her spoon into the dish. She stuck her spoon in her mouth.

"Well?" I asked.

She didn't answer me. She must have liked it, though, because she went on eating.

"Are you coming on the hunt tomorrow, Rafael?" Gabriel asked.

"So long as the hospital doesn't page me," he said.

That reminded me. "If I went to the council building," I asked, "how soon could I get another pager?"

Around the reservation, we rely on pagers if we ever need the reservation police. Gabriel belonged to the tribal council.

"Pretty soon, I'd think," Gabriel said. "We've got a few extras sitting around. Why?"

I nodded subtly at Michaela. I wanted her to have one in case of an emergency.

"You hunt?" Michaela asked Rafael, her mouth full of fried rose blossom.

"You wanna come?" Rafael asked. "I'll get you a knife."

"Okay," Michaela said cautiously.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," I said.

"I want to," she said.

Dad opened his mouth. He closed it. He opened it again.

"So..." he started uncertainly. "Where are you from, Michaela?"

"Mom's from Puerto Rico."

"I see."

"Are Indians from India?" she asked.

I tried not to laugh.

"No," Dad said gently. "We're from America."

"Then why aren't you white?" she asked.

"Well, you see," Dad said, "whites aren't really from America." I could tell what he was thinking. What the heck were they teaching this kid in school? "Their ancestors came here from other countries, like England and Spain."

"What country is Skylar from?" Michaela asked.

"America," Dad said.

"But he doesn't look Indian."

"Looks can be deceiving," Gabriel said, and winked. He tossed his arm around Rosa and she blushed beautifully on cue.

Sunlight leaked out of the sky in one final farewell, save for the last remnants of gold atop the smudged black horizon, their saffron shadows reaching for the heavens in vain. We carried our dishes aside and set them on the counter. I'd clean up later, I told myself. You can't count on Rafael to clean anything. Dad and Racine said goodbye, and after them Rosa and Gabriel. I heard the front door snap shut.

"Are you guys gay?" Michaela said suddenly.

I turned around. I really hadn't expected that line of questioning. In retrospect, I probably should have.

"Yeah," Rafael said, faltering. "Why?"

"No reason," Michaela said.

I looked out the window. Probably a matter of minutes until the stars came out.

"Hey," I said suddenly. "Rafael. Remember those blue stars?"

Rafael lifted his head. "Yeah," he said. A grin flashed across his dark face. " 'Course I do."

Michaela looked from Rafael to me. I had the feeling she was judging us by some unknown criterion.

"Stars aren't blue," Michaela finally said.

"Some stars are," Rafael said.

"You're lying."

"Then why don't we prove it to you?" I said.

"Go on," she challenged.

We went out through the front door. Rafael stepped across the skinny brook. Michaela looked dubiously after him.

"Don't worry," I said.

We crossed the brook after Rafael. The lavender in the sky dulled to a deep gray. Only the last of the sun's rays still reached the bottom of the clouds, a pale moon's spectral imprint stamped across the ethers.

"Where are we going?" Michaela asked.

"You'll see," I said.

We walked a little farther--but then Rafael came to a halt. I stopped, my hand on Michaela's shoulder, and pointed.

The forest opened up onto a glade. The glade was filled with crawling blue flowers, rounded petals tapering to five points. Blue-violet markings ran from stigma to pistil.

"Oh!" Michaela said. "Blue stars. I get it."

"Just wait," I said.

Stars glittered faintly on the coal-gray skyline. The final, feeble spark of sun dropped below the horizon. And the blue stars rolled up in defiance, their petals curling closed.

For a moment it was silent in the glade, the moon shining silver on the grass, on the flowerbuds. The night chill picked up. I was glad to be wearing a turtleneck.

"How did they do that?" Michaela asked.

"They can feel the sunlight," Rafael said. "When there's no more sunlight, they close up. When the sun rises, they open again."

"I'm staying here until the sunrise, then," Michaela decided.

"No you're not," I said. "Time to go home."

Michaela trudged after us on the walk back to the brook. The house loomed in view, the weathervane clapped in the night breeze. I pushed open the front door and lit the oil lamp in the front room.

Later that night I lit the hearth in the sitting room, fireflies twinkling outside the airy windows. Michaela padded down the stairs in plain white pajamas. I wasn't at all certain how many clothes she had brought with her, but I figured I ought to buy her some more. In Nettlebush, some families knit their own clothes. Well, I wasn't in any position to do that. I can't figure out a needle and thread any more than I can a traffic sign.

I padded the gray eiderdown sofa with quilts and pendleton blankets. Michaela tossed her pillow down and climbed on, firelight crackling between the windows.

"You clean up the glass in your room?" I asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Check it out if you don't believe me."

I pulled the pendleton blanket up to her chin, soft fabric woven in shades of ocean blue and mellow sunrise. She gazed at me with hard, appraising eyes.

"I broke that window," she said. "You're really not going to kick me out?"

"You think you're tough, don't you?" I surmised. "When I was your age, I broke a water fountain."

Michaela hesitated. "Really?" she said with interest. "How?"

"I was trying to blow it up. But that's not the point. If you think you're going to scare me, you've got another thing coming."

"That other guy, then," Michaela said. "I'll bet he scares easily."

I smiled. "You caught on, huh? He's not as scary as he looks."

"He doesn't look scary to me."

"Oh, brave."

"What's his name?" Michaela said. "Rafael?"

"That's right."

Michaela paused. "Is he named after the angel?"

She surprised me. "That's right," I said again. "His mother loved the angels."

"Where's his mother?" Michaela asked.

"She passed away."

"Oh." Another pause. "Where's his father?"

I smiled regretfully. "He passed away."

"Wow..."

I palmed the crown of her head. Her eyes slid closed, reminding me of a kitten. "You can ask more questions tomorrow," I said. "Now you go to sleep."

"I want to see those stars again sometime."

"Sure. Just never go past that glade. The north's dangerous. Black bears will gobble you up and floss their teeth with your bones."

"Cool."

I turned off the oil lamp on the side table. Shadows jumped and swam across Michaela's face.

"Sorry I broke the window," Michaela said.

"You mean you're sorry you had to clean it up."

She tried to hide her smile. "Yeah."

"How about we don't do that again?"

"Deal."

4

Lost Lamb

Rafael laid his hunting spear across the breakfast table.

I looked at him blankly. "That doesn't go there."

"I stuck it in the fire last night," he said, disgruntled. "So it's sterilized. Anyway, look what I got for Michaela."

Rafael unclipped a stone knife from his belt and waved it at me.

"You look very threatening right about now," I said. "I fear for my life."

"Shut up, Sky. Anyway, she should be okay with this, right?"

"I don't know, Rafael," I confessed. "You grew up hunting and butchering. You have to remember, she didn't."

"That's true," he admitted pensively.

"It might scare her. Or worse--she could hurt herself."

"Well," he said, "I'm gonna keep a close eye on her. I won't let that happen."

I smiled. "I know you won't."

He looked at me; then away. It still amazes me when he lapses into bashful silence. We've been together since we were kids. There's nothing to be bashful about anymore.

Michaela shuffled into the kitchen. Today's t-shirt didn't bear a witty message. She sat down at the table; she stopped.

"What's that?" she asked, and pointed at her dish.

"Prairie bananas," I said.

"Oh," she said. She picked up a honey biscuit and bit into it noisily.

"You still wanna go hunting?" Rafael asked.

Michaela nodded.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "They're going to be killing animals." I couldn't stand the thought of it. I'm too emotional, I guess.

"I don't care," Michaela said. "My mom killed my cat once. I can take it."

Rafael and I exchanged a look.

"Forget it," Rafael said. "We'll go some other day.

"What?" Michaela complained. "Come on!"

"Eat your breakfast," I said.

Michaela bit into a prairie banana, chewed it up, and stuck her tongue out at me, mushy mess and all.

"Lovely," I said.

Rafael picked up his pager and punched a quick message to his uncle, complaining all the while about the size of the buttons. He set aside his spear and the stone knife. I took a quick trip to the front room closet and dug out the wicker baskets inside.

A few minutes later, and we headed west through the woods, out to the reservation proper.

"Why are we carrying these stupid things?" Michaela said, baskets hanging from her arms.

"Summer crops," Rafael said. "We pick 'em up from our friend's farm."

"And they let you?"

"Why wouldn't they?" I asked.

"I don't know," Michaela said. "Mom always stole food from the supermarkets."

I wasn't sure whether to feel sorry or upset. On the one hand, her mother must have been in some pretty dire straits. On the other, I'm not sure you should let your kid watch you shoplifting.

The farmland was abundant with families on their way to pick up the summer yield. Not as many as you see in autumn, though--now that's a sight to behold. Kids leaned across the wooden fences and the iron gates stood open, welcoming to visitors. One of Mrs. Siomme's mares stood alongside the country lane and the young children laughed, brushing their hands across her glossy brown coat.

"Hello, the two of you! I mean, the three of you!" Aubrey said.

Annie was sitting on a chair outside the farm gates, fanning herself with her hand. She smiled serenely at us.

"You're fat," Michaela said to her.

"Yes, I am," Annie said evenly. "And do you know whose fault that is, sweetheart?"

"Anyway," Aubrey said quickly, fretfully, "why don't you go ahead and pick up your crops?"

We went through the gates to the plot out front. I spotted Leon hiding in the cornstalks, peeping at us with his luminous, cunning eyes. I didn't think he'd appreciate it if I laughed at him.

"It's blue!" Michaela shrieked, pointing at the corn.

"Tastes better than yellow corn," Rafael said.

Michaela cast him a dubious look.

"What?" Rafael said defensively. "It does." He ripped an ear off its stalk and peeled back the silk. He handed the ear to Michaela. "Try it."

She bit into it. She hastily tried to cover a smile. "Tastes like candy," she said.

"I told you so," Rafael said. "Why would I lie?"

"In summer," I said, smiling, "some tribes celebrate the green festival. That's when their blue corn ripens."

"Then why don't they call it a blue festival?" Michaela asked.

"Because they're not as smart as you," I said.

We packed our baskets with crops and went beyond the gate, where Annie sat chewing out a cringing Zeke.

"--and it's so difficult, and people like you come along--!"

Michaela tugged on my arm. "Is she always so mean?" she asked.

I tugged on my collar. Man, was I sweating. Maybe it wasn't such a bright idea to wear a turtleneck out to a farm. "Only when she's pregnant," I replied.

"I love it when she's pregnant," said Holly At Dawn, in rare good spirits.

Rafael and Michaela and I sat for a moment underneath a shady crabapple tree on the opposite side of the lane. I watched Henry Siomme, a twelve-year-old, as he helped a little girl up onto the back of his mother's horse and took her for a short stroll. Michaela watched, too. I think she secretly wanted a ride of her own.

Rafael's hand rested on my back. "Why are you wearing that heavy shirt?" he asked me.

Little Charity approached us just then, her hands tucked her back. "Hi," she said brightly to Michaela. "Did you try any of the summer squash?"

Michaela shook her head, eyeing Charity furtively.

"Me neither. I like the winter squash better. Do you know about the raft race?"

"Char," Rafael said, "you wanna come with us?" We had to get the vegetables in the cellar before they spoiled.

The four of us walked back to the woods together, Charity chatting with Michaela. The conversation was largely onesided. We went home and Rafael and I laid the crops down in the cellar. I kind of wanted to sit down there for a while myself. On the other hand, Rafael was sure to take it as a personal victory if I tried. He was the champion of cellars, that Rafael, and refused to consider that a refrigerator might be just as handy.

"Do you want to build a raft together?" I heard Charity say to Michaela when we climbed out of the cellar.

Rafael strode across the room, then stopped. One of his pagers had started beeping. He spent a few frustrated minutes figuring out which one, then cursed beneath his breath. "I've gotta go back to the hospital," he said.

"Have fun," I said with an impish smile.

He scowled at me, but kissed me on the cheek. "Seriously," he said. "Change your damn shirt." And then he went out the door, not to be seen or heard for hours.

I figured I had better get to work fixing Michaela's window. I was pretty sure I still had leftover sand and glasswort in the attic from eight years ago. I'd gone overboard back when we were building the house.

"Skylar," Charity said, "would you mind if we hang out together by the brook?"

"You really delivered a calf?" Michaela asked her.

"Not really," Charity admitted. "But I tried to help."

"Stay close to the window," I said. "If I can't see you, I'm going to scream."

Charity giggled. "Basket case," she teased.

The girls went outside while I made a quick visit upstairs to the attic. Boy, was it dusty in there. I found the sand and glasswort boxes underneath a shelf stacked with Rafael's old notebooks. One of these days, I thought, I was going to look through those notebooks again. I loved his old drawings, promises of monsters and fairy tales, folk stories come to life in charcoal and spiral binders.

I dragged the boxes down the stairs and over to the hearth. That was when Carole Svensen crept timidly into the room.

I waved at her. "Want to make glass with me?"

She started talking--or I think she did, because her lips were moving--but not a sound came out of her mouth.

"Sorry?" I said politely.

"...Your amendment action...for the ICWA...I need..."

"Carole," I said, "why do you come all the way out here to pick up my junk? Can't you just trust me to e-mail it to you?"

Carole's flesh-colored stockings were in pretty bad shape; I saw a tear running down the side, no doubt inflicted by a thorny barberry bush. She didn't seem to notice, but there was a leaf stuck to the side of her head.

She looked like she was about to cry.

"Come here," I relented, and opened my arms. And she rushed into them, like a lost lamb to a shepherd, and wailed all over my fuzzy turtleneck.

Dad was the next one into the sitting room--though he drew to a sudden stop at the sight of us. "I hope I'm not interrupting..."

"Carole's had a rough day," I said, rubbing her back.

"Ah, I see," Dad said. "Should I make some tea?"

"There are acorns in the kitchen," I said.

"I'm on it."

A few minutes later, and Dad and Carole were drinking roasted acorn tea in the front room while Carole helped herself to my computer. Charming girl, that Carole. I don't know why she doesn't trust me to get my work in on time. I'm not that bad of a slacker, am I?

Dad came and sat with me in the sitting room when I was pulling the iron hearth tray out of the fireplace, the tray laden with a white-hot mess of molten sand and ash. Lighting the fire in the middle of the day was kind of a dumb idea. Nettlebush's daily temperature averages in the 90's. The sitting room, consequently, was stifling.

"Your glasswork looks as good as ever," Dad said.

"Thanks." I set the tray beneath the mantel to cool. "What are you up to today?"

"Fishing with Cyrus. I must admit, it was nice to be on the water again..."

I smiled at him. "I can imagine."

Dad paused. "That little girl of yours--why don't we teach her to play shinny? I'm sure she'd find it fun."

I glanced out the window. Michaela and Charity were sitting by the brook, Charity winding centauries in Michaela's hair like a crown. Michaela didn't seem to know what to make of her new friend. At least neither of them had wandered very far.

I looked back at Dad; I smiled fondly. "I'd like that. I'll ask her tonight."

The more I watched Dad, the more I thought about how withered and frail he looked. The sentiment bit at the inside of my heart. A part of me wanted to ask how prison had treated him. A larger part of me most definitely did not. Whatever he had been through, the worst possible thing I could do was to make him relive it.

"Has she been to a therapist?" Dad said.

I wrestled myself out of my reverie. "Huh?"

"Michaela," Dad said. "It seems she's had a lot of emotional difficulties..." He glanced none too subtly at the cooling sheet of glass. "I was just wondering. Remember the psychiatrist I took you to when you were six?"

I fell silent. Yeah, I remembered that. I remembered that a little too well.

I heard the mechanical humming of the printer in the next room; a mind-numbing metronome.

"Dad?" I said.

"Yes?"

I looked at him. I mean, I really looked at him. This man's life was far from easy. His wife dying, his best friend the killer... His strained relationship with his mother, something I'd wondered about, but never really understood until now...

"Never mind," I said with a quick smile. I wasn't about to add more strife to his repertoire.

Carole checked briefly into the room to say goodbye, my files clutched safely in her hand. "And the tea was wonderful, Mr. Looks Over, thank you!" I waved goodbye as she saw herself out the door.

I glanced out the window. My heart plummeted into my stomach. Michaela and Charity were both gone.

I didn't waste time explaining myself: I ran out the door. Dad ran after me, which I can't really say came as a surprise. The brook met me face-first, and the thickly wooded area on the other side. I couldn't see either of the girls.

I fumbled hastily with the pager in my pants pocket. Every pager in Nettlebush has its own number. Charity's was 15--on my keypad, anyway. I typed quickly. A clear, tinnying beep sounded from the other side of the skinny brook.

Okay, I thought. Calm down. Maybe they didn't go past the glade. Maybe Charity can talk some sense into her--

Either way, I dashed across the brook.

It didn't take long for Dad and me to hit the starfield. Charity was there, but no Michaela. Charity was mid-run when I caught her by the elbow and spun her around.

Her dark eyes were alight with fear. "I told her not to! She said she wanted to see the black bears. I told her--"

Calm down, I thought again. Just because she wanted to find the black bears didn't mean she would. I'd lived seventeen years on the reservation without seeing them even once.

"What number is Rafael?" Dad said, and took the pager from my hand.

"Just dial '1'," I said. "Could you take Charity home?"

"Be safe," Dad said. He gave me back my pager and took Charity's hand.

I trekked across the woods at a run. All the same, I couldn't stop wondering what I had done wrong. I think that's natural during a crisis. Not that this was a crisis. She's fine, I kept telling myself. She's fine.

Until I came across the forest den, and the enormous black bear crouching slowly from its opening, sniffing at the air--rising on hind legs.

"What--what should I do?" Michaela said. She wasn't moving. She must have been paralyzed with fear.

"Just stay there," I said, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Play dead, right?"

"No," I said. "If she thinks you're dead, she's more likely to eat you. Just stand very still, okay? Don't raise your voice or you'll scare her. Don't run or she'll think you're prey."

I wanted very badly to grab Michaela, but another step closer might rouse the bear's suspicion. So I stood still--almost afraid to breathe--and I kept my eyes on the both of them.

The bear dropped down on all fours. She picked up on our scent and stalked closer. My heart was working overtime in my chest, burning and painful.

"It's okay," Rafael said.

I chanced a look over my shoulder. He approached us very slowly, his hunting spear in his hands.

"The both of you back up."

I reached for Michaela's arm and drew her backwards just as Rafael stepped forward. The simultaneous movement confused the bear. The bear paused in her pursuit. Her beady black eyes shifted from Michaela to Rafael.

Rafael was very still, perfectly calm, save for the extending of his spear. Experimentally, the bear swiped at the spear. Her padded paw caught on the iron spearhead.

She moaned with surprise--and probably a little pain. She turned her back on us and took off at a sprint.

Rafael didn't say a word. He jerked his head at us, a nerve working alongside his taut jaw. He led us on the walk back to the house, my hand tight around Michaela's.

We'd barely walked through the front door when Rafael spun on Michaela, fury in his dark eyes, fury on his dark face.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

It's not very often that Rafael shows real anger. When he does, it's not pretty. I guess Michaela must have been used to angry adults, though; she didn't even flinch.

"Michaela?" I said.

"You said not to go there," Michaela said. "Near the bears."

I tried to keep the weariness from my voice. "That's right. So why did you do it?"

"To see if you would come for me."

I didn't know what to say.

"You could have been killed," Rafael went on. "Sky could have been killed. Did you even think about that?"

Reluctantly, Michaela shook her head.

"Are you going to do this again?"

Again, she shook her head.

"I don't believe you," he said. "I don't want you playing outside anymore."

Michaela lifted her head. "But--!"

"Rafael..." I said.

"Don't give me that crap," he said to me. "I don't trust her. Do you?"

I hesitated.

"Do you?"

"Not at the moment, no," I said.

"But you came for me," Michaela said.

"Yes," I said. "We're always going to come for you."

"Then why can't I play with Charity anymore?"

"You can," Rafael said. "Inside the house. Get me to trust you again and you can go outside."

Her lips pinched, her brows furrowing in ten-year-old righteous rage. She spun around--her hair tossing around her like a cape--and ran up the staircase to her room. I decided I'd better go fit the new window in its frame lest she jump to freedom.

"She hates us," Rafael said miserably.

I looked at him with some level of surprise. "No, she doesn't," I said. "If she hated us, she wouldn't have run."

I don't think he followed. His expression was nothing short of puzzled.

"You'll see," I promised. "Give it time. I guarantee she's going to calm down once she knows she's safe."

"You should've been a psychiatrist," Rafael mumbled. "Not a lawyer."

I paused. "That's okay," I said. "I don't like psychiatrists."

By sunset, all of Nettlebush gathered around the communal firepit for dinner. The sky was soaked in red and gray, the sun copper and spent. The At Dawn twins sat playing Sai Paa Hupia on the double-skin drum. And Michaela sat at the picnic table, glowering at me.

"I see which one of you she takes after," Caias Siomme said to me, the reservation school's sole teacher.

I've known this guy since I was his student. Back then he was just Mr. Red Clay, the tough-as-nails human encyclopedia. He married and had children some time after I graduated from his class, and that's why he's Mr. Siomme now. But I can't quite wrap my head around that, so I'm just going to call him Mr. Red Clay.

Mr. Red Clay is Dad's age--hitting his sixties--but he's still ridiculously handsome. I'm sure a sizable fraction of the female population would agree with me on that.

"I'm hoping we still have her in September," I said.

"Then I can look forward to having her in my class. Why do you say 'hope'?"

I quirked a smile. "She's kind of a problem child."

Mr. Red Clay raised an eyebrow. "And Rafael wasn't?"

I thought: He's right. Growing up, Rafael was one of the most problematic kids on the reservation. I can't count the number of classmates he decked across the face. His worst fight landed his brawling partner in the hospital--and got the both of them a year-long suspension from school.

"I'm of the opinion," Mr. Red Clay said, "that love can fix anything. You'll notice Rafael calmed down considerably when he met you."

"Well," I said, "don't embarrass me." But really, isn't that true, in a way? I'm pretty sure all anyone wants in this world is to know they're loved. Once you've got love under your belt, it's a whole lot easier to deal with the smaller stuff.

I watched Jessica as she tried to coax a stern and taciturn Stuart Stout into dancing by the fire. I watched Rafael sketching in a bound notebook by the firelight. I watched DeShawn handing out baked acorn squash to the children sitting on the smooth soil. Yes, I thought. A whole lot easier.

When the sky was darker than it was light, when the moon was as bright as a beacon at sea, it was time, at last, to head home. William Has Two Enemies picked up a barrel full of water and dumped it over the stone firepit; the embers hissed and smoldered wetly, rising smoke occluding the stars.

Michaela walked between Rafael and me, her head down, her eyes on the moonlit path. The forest path forked and we followed it north, the house at the end of the dirt road.

I lit the oil lamp in the front room. Michaela stood staring at me.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said.

"Okay," I said, and wiggled my eyebrows.

Michaela went up to bed very shortly after that. I lit the hearth for the night, owls calling noisily outside the windows, coywolves yipping back as they settled down to sleep.

"I guess I thought it was gonna be happy all the time," Rafael grumbled, when he and I went up to bed.

"Why?" I asked, smothering a laugh. "Was your household always pleasant when you were a kid?"

He paused. "No," he confessed, and grinned at some obscure memory. "I was a pain in the ass. But Mary was the bigger pain."

"I'm sure she was," I remarked. I knew better.

I didn't have a chance to turn off the lamp. The door burst open, and Michaela ran in in plain white pajamas.

"What is it?" I asked.

"What's this?" Michaela asked. She invited herself up onto the bed and waved a sheet of paper at us.

I couldn't actually figure out what it was, because she wouldn't hold it still. Rafael intervened. He took the paper from her little hands and smoothed it out. Now I saw it for what it really was; a drawing in colored pencil.

"That's Nai Nukkwi," Rafael said.

Michaela wrinkled her face. "Who?"

"Nai Nukkwi," he said. "She was Shoshone, like us. She lived a long, long time ago. When she was nine or ten, an enemy tribe captured her. They were going to sell her to white fur trappers as a slave. But Nai Nukkwi escaped. She ran a thousand miles home, all by herself."

"Why's there a bear in the picture?" Michaela asked.

"Okay," said Rafael, "when she was on the run, she came across an angry sleuth of bears. There were dozens of them, and they were standing between her and the Lemhi Valley. But she wasn't afraid. She knew that if she wanted to survive, she had to stand up straight, and look the leader in the eye."

I took a closer look at little Nai Nukkwi in her colored elkskin dress. A hungry black bear towered over her on hind legs, jaws wide open.

"But she looks like me," Michaela said.

And that was true. I saw freckles on Nai Nukkwi's face, her nose small and snubbed, her hair straight and brown.

"How do you draw like that?" Michaela said. "Can I draw like that?"

"I could teach you," Rafael said.

My heart tightened in my chest. Rafael's father had taught him how to draw.

"Okay," Michaela said. "You do that."

"But if you act like a brat again," Rafael said brashly, "then I'm gonna stop teaching you. So you've gotta behave from now on."

Michaela let out a great big sigh. "Fine."

She padded out of our bedroom, the drawing clutched possessively in her hands. I heard her trundle down the hall; I heard her door click shut.

"Softy," I accused.

"Shut up," Rafael said, and turned his head away so I wouldn't see his smile.

5

Mickey

The date of the annual raft race was mid-June. Probably a good thing, because the heat climbs steeply just around the monsoon. In June, it's still--arguably--tolerable.

Children and their families all gathered by the lakeshore with their handmade rafts. I saw Aubrey with his sons, and Isaac and Daisy with theirs, and Serafine and Charity checking the lashing on their beechwood one last time.

"Go, Charity!" I heard Gabriel shout. "Go, Serafine!"

"You sure you don't want to join them?" I asked Michaela.

"No," she said adamantly. "It looks stupid."

"Why are you still wearing that turtleneck?" Rafael asked me.

"It's a different turtleneck," I said.

"But why are you wearing it?"

Mr. At Dawn blew his whistle. The kids pushed their rafts onto the water and jumped on.

The morning sun shone coolly on the dry grass. Michaela's chin drooped on her hand. I noticed. I nudged Rafael and nodded her way.

Rafael coughed. "Hey," Rafael said. "You wanna do something else?"

Michaela looked at him suspiciously. "Like what?"

"You haven't seen the rest of the reservation yet," I said.

Her suspicious gaze redirected at me. "There's more?"

We slipped away while Gabriel shouted his lungs out. Not bad for a guy hitting fifty. We followed the path through the woods and out to the firepit. From there we headed west.

"Are we going to the farms?" Michaela asked.

"Nope," I said.

We went first to the windmill field. The grass is always green there; I don't know why it doesn't go brown the way the rest of the reservation does. Michaela stood in the middle of the open plain, her eyes on the whirring windmill blades.

"What do they do?" she asked.

"That's where our electricity comes from," I explained.

She snorted. "You guys don't even use electricity."

"Yeah we do," Rafael said testily. "How do you think the computer works?"

"Can I go on the computer later?" Michaela asked.

"Depends on my mood."

From there we followed the country lane to a grove of red pines, so named for the color of their bark. I pointed at a colonial-looking building paved from red bricks.

"That's where we went to school," I said.

"Will I go to school there?" Michaela asked.

I couldn't help but smile. "If you want."

We went around the back of the school to the playground, little more than a cluster of rope swings and an outhouse. Michaela picked up a red pinecone and tucked it in her pocket for a keepsake. She sat on one of the rope swings and Rafael pushed her while I sat on the ground at their side.

"You like school?" I asked.

"Hate it," Michaela said.

"Me, too," Rafael and I said at once. I shot Rafael a mischievous grin.

"I like hockey," Michaela said. "Sucks that none of my old schools had a team."

"What's hockey?" Rafael asked.

Michaela showed him a dark look. Rafael returned it seamlessly. "What?" he insisted.

"You know," I said. "The Shoshone invented hockey."

Michaela's head whipped around in my direction. I watched her with smiling eyes as she clung to the knotted rope, swinging safely back and forth. "No you didn't," she accused.

"We did," I said. "Only we called it shinny. And back in the old days, only women were allowed to play it."

A catlike smile spread across Michaela's face. "I like that..."

"Hey," said a surly Rafael.

"What's your favorite thing to eat?" I asked.

"Tamales," Michaela said.

"Really?" I mused. "You might like hotbread."

"What's that?" she asked.

"It's a bread made with chili peppers. It's spicy, but sweet. I'll make you some later."

"Cool," Michaela said.

We were walking back from the playground when Michaela pointed at the little white church nearby, a graveyard out back.

"You wanna go in?" asked a dubious Rafael.

"No," said Michaela. "I just remembered. I slept in a graveyard the last time I ran away."

Rafael and I exchanged a look.

"Who were you running from, Michaela?" I asked.

"Mom. She went after me with the hot iron again."

We milled through the creaking graveyard gates without my really thinking about it; I was too busy reflecting, in considerable discomfort, over Michaela's last words. Michaela walked idly between the headstones.

"When's the last time you saw your mom?" I asked, as gently as I knew how.

Michaela shrugged. I didn't want to press the subject so soon, so I let it go.

"Hey," Rafael murmured. "That's my mom's grave."

Michaela stopped and stood back.

"Susan Gives Light," the epitaph read. "1958 - 1991. A life of love is not a short one."

"How did she die?" Michaela asked.

"Encephalitis," Rafael said.

"What does that mean?"

"Swelling in her brain."

Michaela sat cross-legged on the ground. I watched her. I didn't know what else to do.

"I don't know my dad," she said. "I don't know if he's alive or dead."

"I'm sorry for that," I said softly.

"I'm not," Michaela said. "He ran out on me. Why should I care about him?" She tilted her head back and looked up at Rafael. "What kind of name is Gives Light?"

"A Plains name," he said dully.

"Why do you have names like that? Why don't you have names like Morales?"

"There's a reason for that," I said. "Hundreds of years ago, Plains People didn't have last names. They just named themselves based off of favorite characteristics, or animals, or things like that."

"Uh-huh..."

"But around the late 1800s, the government asked Native Americans to give themselves last names. That way the government could keep track of them more easily. So the Natives took their mothers' names and tacked them onto their own. Rafael's name is Gives Light because he had an ancestor, a great-great-grandmother, named Gives Light."

"Why was she called Gives Light?"

"Don't know for sure," Rafael said. "We think she was a candlemaker. Makan Imaa. That's how you say Gives Light in Shoshone."

"It sounds pretty in Shoshone," Michaela remarked.

I smiled again, endeared. "Sure does."

We walked from the graveyard to the main road. Michaela swung her arms at her sides.

"What was your great-great-grandmother's name?" she asked me.

"Sape Naha," I said. "Looks Over."

"Why was she called Looks Over?"

"She was a very nervous girl," I explained. "She always looked over her shoulder because she was afraid the enemy was right behind her."

"Who was the enemy?"

I smiled wryly. "Her father."

"No way!"

"Yes way. He was a Mormon soldier, and not a very nice one. She was afraid he would take her away from her home."

"Did he?" Michaela pressed.

I hesitated. "He did," I said, thinking about the Indian schools. "But she came back in the end."

"Well, good," Michaela said stubbornly. "She won."

"In the end," I said, "everyone comes home."

We started north through the reservation, past the communal firepit. The sweeping southern oak tree loomed in view; Gabriel's house rested beneath its mossy, golden boughs.

"How about you?" I asked Michaela. "What are your ancestors' names?"

She pulled an unpleasant face. "I don't know most of my family," she reported. "I hate my mom... I think I had a grandmother named Lupe. I always liked that name. I think it's cool. Cooler than mine, anyway."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rafael said. "I think the name Michaela is cool."

I was more worried about her feelings toward her mother. Not that I could blame her from what little information she'd left us with thus far.

"It's girly," Michaela said. "I don't like girly."

"Well," I said, "is there another name you'd like us to call you?"

Michaela thought it over as we walked in silence. "Mickey," she finally said. "Mickey Mouse is awesome. I love him so much."

"Mickey's the best," I said seriously.

"Oh, you know who else I love? Peter Pan!"

"Me too," I said, grinning. "When I was your age, he was my favorite."

"I like the Little Mermaid," Rafael said.

"Girly," Michaela dismissed.

Rafael scowled. "She's not girly. She's awesome. And brave."

I winked at Rafael over the top of Michaela's head. He sneered at me, unimpressed.

"Mickey Morales," I said. "I think I can remember that."

We reached the meridian where the smooth terrain clipped off into chalky, sliding clay. Mickey stopped short and drew in a breath. She looked out to the windy horizon.

"What is that?" she asked distantly.

She meant the blue-gray canyons that stretched forever toward the sky. She meant the swimming cracks and crevices and the sliding tent rocks. She meant the chilly, milk-white clouds resting like blankets atop an otherworldly expanse.

"Badlands," Rafael murmured, his lips tilted in a muted half-smile. "My favorite place on earth."

"Not mine," I joked. But I meant it, too.

Mickey looked at me. "Why don't you like it? It's so pretty."

"Yes, honey, but it's also very dangerous. Did you know..." I waited until I thought the pause was dramatic enough. "I nearly died out there once."

Rafael rolled his eyes. "Yeah, if by 'nearly died' you mean you slipped on a few loose rocks and acted like you'd broken your neck."

"I could have."

"You didn't."

"But I could have."

We went to Gabriel's house around lunchtime. Apparently Jack Nabako and his nephew had won the raft race for the third year in the row.

"How is he doing it?" Serafine Takes Flight complained, the ribbons in her long hair shaking when she shook her head. "Mr. Nabako's fat! He shouldn't stay afloat!"

"Serafine," Charity said, sounding scandalized.

Gabriel's sitting room had more windows than it did walls. You can't really blame him when the view of the north is so majestic. Gabriel and Dad sat talking about the tribal council while Leon and Nicholas Little Hawk chased one another around the coffee table and Charity pulled out a photo album to show to Mickey. I went into the kitchen, the counters granite and the walls the color of packing straw, and Annie and I cooked together at the wood-coal stove.

"This baby is killing me," Annie said, her hand on her back.

I pulled out a chair at the island and Annie sat down with a breath of relief.

"Do you know whether it's a boy or a girl?" I asked.

"With my luck? Another boy, I'll bet."

"Maybe you can make a trade," I suggested, smiling impishly. "With William and Lorna. I'm sure they're tired of girls."

"Skylar, don't even joke like that."

"If you had to trade anyone, it would be Leon, wouldn't it?" I guessed solemnly. "Poor kid."

Annie swiped at me with an oven mitt. I cackled and opened the oven door.

"Oh, hotbread," she said placidly. She has her moments.

"Hope Mickey likes it," I said.

"Hmm, isn't that a Toni Basil song?"

"Your age is showing."

"Hush, you."

We went back out to the sitting room, my arm around Annie's back.

"You're ugly, and you smell," Nicholas was saying to Mickey. You can't accuse that kid of never speaking his mind.

"Yeah, right," Mickey said. "Asswipe."

I choked on spit. I tried very, very hard not to laugh. I laughed anyway.

"What'd you say?" Nicholas asked curiously.

"I called you an asswipe," Mickey said. "You're an asswipe."

"Asswipe?" he said. "Cool..."

Leon let out a ferocious yell and leapt down from Gabriel's mantel. Aubrey sputtered and caught him midair. I suddenly understood why Annie was dreading another boy.

We went outside to eat beneath the sprawling oak tree. Mary and Kaya sat side-by-side, Mary plucking the strings of an acoustic guitar. Charity sang a couple of verses from There She Sits while Serafine plugged her ears. And along came Grandma Gives Light, leaning heavily on Rosa's shoulder.

My first impression of Grandma Gives Light was that of an owl. Her eyeglasses were big and round--bigger even than Aubrey's, a real feat. Her scraggly gray hair fell down her back in long waves. Her legs and her stomach were very round, but her arms and her chest were rather thin; altogether her shape made me think of an egg. She held her mouth puckered around her teeth as though she was afraid they would fall out. I guessed she was about eighty years old.

"Pia," Gabriel said, rising from the lawn. "Hinna punikkatu?"

Grandma Gives Light looked so innocuous, so childlike, that for a moment I actually doubted Rafael and Mary's stories about her.

And then she tipped her head back and began moaning like a madwoman to the heavens.

"Nian huttsimpia keehinna tokwinna! Tupichi tammattsi, tangku watsingku, puesusu ponaahwa piammutonna... Ma punni, sapan nahnappuh, tuchu pai nian nanumu... Hakanukwitu, Tam Apo, hakanukwitu..."

Grandma Gives Light balled her hands into fists and started beating at her chest in misery. Rafael looked as though he wasn't sure whether to glower, balk, or throw up. Mickey's eyes lit up; she started giggling.

"Alright, Mother, alright," Gabriel said, and took Grandma Gives Light by the arm. She fought him. "I'm sure she's only very tired from the trip," he said to Rosa. Poor Rosa looked like she might cry. "Let's get her to her room--"

"Taipo'o!" Grandma Gives Light suddenly shrieked. She pointed at me emphatically. "Dosabitumu kimmatu nian sokowa innuntukkah pinnasu!"

"What the hell?" I heard Racine say as she came out of the house.

"Nothing, dear..." Dad said.

"What's she saying?" Michaela whispered to me.

"I'll tell you when you're older," I replied. Right now I was too busy trying not to burst out laughing.

"Kanaakka," Grandma Gives Light went on as Gabriel winced, tugging her along. She peered after Racine with a smile I didn't trust. "Nian ukupinaa tangummu kanaakka, uu wailt pusikwatu'ih..."

The door slapped closed behind Grandma Gives Light and Gabriel as they went inside the house. The rest of us were silent.

"Pass me the corn," Racine said.

That about summed things up.

Zeke and Holly came around about an hour later when Leon had fallen asleep, his head on Aubrey's shoulder. Kaya, Serafine, and Racine started up a card game while Mary chewed Dad's ear off talking about her last trip to Guatemala. Mickey sat gnawing contentedly on the hotbread. I was glad to see she liked it.

"How come your eyes are blue?" Mickey asked Rafael, her mouth full.

"Swallow," Rafael said.

She swallowed.

"Because my grandpa--the guy who married that crazy woman back there--he was Mandan."

"What's Mandan?"

"It's an Indian tribe from way up north. Lots of them have blond hair and blue eyes. I know my grandpa did."

"Is that why Skylar's blond?"

"Something like that," I said mildly.

"I thought only white people were blond. And whatever."

"Nah," Rafael said. "They'd like you to think that, but don't buy into the hype. Didn't you ever hear of the Si-Te-Cah tribe? They were all redheads. Annoyed the shit out of the rest of us, too. Don't go looking for 'em nowadays, though. They were cannibals. They ate themselves right out of existence."

"Huh," Mickey said. "And why do you all wear long hair, like Tony Kakko?"

"You like Sonata Arctica?" Rafael said with interest.

"Kill me," I said politely.

"Anyway," Rafael said, "in Plains culture, we don't cut our hair unless something bad happens. Like when a family member dies. Men and women wear their hair long otherwise. Except Aubrey, but he's a dumbass. Don't base anything you do off of him."

"Why not?"

"You don't wanna grow up to be a dumbass, too, do you?"

"I heard that," Annie said.

"I thought you were calling your husband a dumbass days ago, Little Hawk."

"Shhh!" Aubrey said hastily. "Please! She's in a good mood right now..."

I was in a pretty good mood myself when Rafael, Mickey, and I went home later that night. Mickey was at her chattiest. "Serafine said she'd show me how to pluck a duck," she told us. Not if I had anything to say about it. "And Nicholas is so gross, I'm glad I don't have a brother like that."

"Little brothers are better to have than big brothers," I said wisely. "DeShawn's younger than me. Growing up, he always had to do what I told him."

"Don't listen to Sky," Rafael said gruffly. "Sky didn't even start talking until, like, seven years ago."

I lit the lamps inside the house. Mickey surveyed me skeptically. "Why didn't you talk? Everyone must've been annoyed with you."

"Probably," I said.

"No," Rafael said, "he's always been a good guy. Never annoying." I flashed him a fond smile. "It's just that he couldn't talk. His voice didn't work."

"Why not?" Mickey asked.

"Don't you think you ought to go to bed?" I said.

Mickey huffed. "I'm ten."

"Life's so unfair, isn't it?" I pointed toward the staircase. "Good night."

We listened as she cursed and complained beneath her breath, stomping up the stairs like a baby elephant. I snickered. Rafael gave me a weird look.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Whenever I pictured the two of us with kids," he said, "I always figured you'd be the nice parent."

"Rafael, you know me better than that."

"Damn right I do. The hell was I thinking?"

We went up to bed not long after Mickey had. Rafael ripped off his eyeglasses and tossed himself haphazardly onto the mattress. Beached pilot whale, I thought incredulously.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Rafael's inked arm stretched toward the oil lamp; the tattoos on his arm, blue chains and a creepy, monstrous mermaid, stretched taut.

He stopped short of turning off the light. "What?"

I must have been looking at him for longer than I'd realized. I smiled. I shook my head.

I was just thinking, that's all. About when we were kids; about when we first met. Moody kid, that Rafael. He'd glared at me from across the bonfire, like I'd done something to mortally offend him. All I could think at the time was: What's his problem? Weird.

I never could have guessed I was going to marry that moody kid.

Rafael's eyes trained on mine. I could see them by the lamplight, tempestuous depths, as dark as the blue slate before dawn.

He was the same as when I'd first met him. His jaw square; his nose flat. Hair long and lank and badly knotted. Kindness behind his smoldering eyes. Everything I loved about him was unchanging. Unchanging in spite of the new lines on his face, on his forehead and around his cheeks. A beautiful, unchanging boy in a changing body.

Rafael let out a soft sound--a breath of air, something between a huff and a sigh. He turned off the lamp. He lay back in bed, his head against his pillow.

He snatched me around the waist, impatiently, and pulled me against him. He wrapped his arms around me, my head tucked beneath his chin.

I am old and stupid and in love.

6

Iron Rose

Every July, Nettlebush plays host to a roaring, raging monsoon the likes of which Poseidon would envy.

Right before the monsoon you've got a flurry of activity pouring out of every corner of the reservation. The farmers sprint around like headless chickens as they herd their livestock indoors and get the last of their seeds harrowed in the ground. The hunters race out to the badlands and chase after the jackrabbits and the mule deer, both of which go scarce when the rain comes out. The fishermen mostly just hang around each other's homes and weave nets from pawpaw and milkweed. The catfish they're after won't bother coming out until the monsoon has passed.

The monsoon was due a little early this summer. I could tell by the swirling gray clouds, seismic in the sky; the way the pine trees bowed and swayed in the breeze, spilling their needles to the ground; the way the air felt on my face, thick and wet.

And, of course, by the presence of the reservation's shaman, who walked around warning everyone about their upcoming demise.

I don't know about other tribes, but the Shoshone have always looked to their shamans for guidance from the spiritual world. Or they did in the old days. Nowadays we respect our shamans as a remnant from our past, but we don't take them very seriously. The way they conduct themselves doesn't help matters.

Have you ever seen a picture of Einstein? The one where he sticks his tongue out at the camera? His eyes are bulging with insane ingenuity; his hair stands on end like he stuck his hand in an electric socket. Okay, now take that image and superimpose it over a thirty-three-year-old Plains woman. You've got yourself a Shaman Immaculata Quick.

I was taking Mickey to Annie's house when Immaculata came walking up the lane toward us, waving her arms and shouting.

"What's she saying?" Mickey asked, confused.

"Tuupukkan uma! Takkamah!" Immaculata shouted.

"She's just saying hello," I told Mickey.

Mickey stared after Immaculata, baffled, Immaculata's elkskin fringe swinging about her elbows and knees. "If I said hello like that," Mickey told me, "I'd get smacked across the face!"

It was increasingly worrisome whenever Mickey talked about her former foster homes. I led her across the Little Hawks' lawn, my hand on her back.

"You know that's not right," I said quietly. "Don't you?"

She tilted her head back in order to look up at me. "What do you mean?"

"No one is allowed to hit you."

"Tons of people used to hit me."

"That doesn't mean they were allowed."

We crossed the threshold into the farm manor, the ceiling fan spinning lazily in the foyer.

"Who cares?" Mickey said. "Who cares if somebody hits me?"

"I care," I said. "Rafael cares. You know that nice drawing he put in your room? He did it because he cares about you."

Mickey lapsed into a pensive silence, frowning when we made our way to the kitchen.

I'd promised Annie I'd help her cook today. When I found her, though, she was sitting bent over the kitchen table, fanning her face.

"Are you okay?" I asked, and rubbed her back.

"Oh, I'm fine," Annie said, and placed a hand on her pregnant stomach. She flashed a quick smile Mickey's way. "I thought I might get back into the military after this one, but I'm starting to doubt that very much."

"Annie," I said, "what about your isolation tent?"

It's Shoshone tradition for an expectant mother to isolate herself from male company during the last leg of her pregnancy. During that time, she withdraws into a tent just outside her regular home. Only women can come and visit her, and she can't have a man with her during delivery. I don't really know why this custom is the way it is, except that traditionally, women always had the most power in a Shoshone society. Distributing food, spoils, and clothes, deciding the next migration route, sending warriors off to battle, even playing sports--they were all women's endeavors. In fact, one of the oldest known chiefs of the tribe was a woman. Her name was Cunning Eyes.

"I can't very well sleep in a tent when there's a monsoon just around the corner, now can I?" Annie pointed out. "I'll have to make do with the attic. At least Holly and Daisy will be with me."

I didn't bother keeping a straight face. "I'm sure Holly's going to be a lot of help."

"Oh, Skylar."

" 'Go back in, little baby. This world is far too cruel. Crawl back whence you came...' "

"That's a frighteningly accurate impression of her, but enough of that. Get me the pinyon nuts, please."

Mickey and I spent a large portion of the morning flitting back and forth across the kitchen at Annie's behest. At least Annie was off her feet for a while. For the most part we prepared simple dishes for the older folks, many of whom couldn't provide for themselves during the lengthy monsoon.

"Don't worry about delivering them," Annie said. "I'll have Nicholas do it. It's about time he learns how to treat his elders."

I kissed the top of her head before Mickey and I left for the day.

"Why does anyone have babies?" Mickey said. "They cry all the time, and they make you fat."

"Only for a little while," I assured her. "And Shoshone babies don't cry."

"Sure they don't," Mickey dismissed. "I'll believe that one...never."

We followed the easternmost path out to the lake. We were on our way to visit Dad and Racine.

"You know," I said.

"I know what?"

I smiled and showed her my tongue. "Never mind."

It just struck me that Mr. Red Clay was right about her. In more than a few ways, her crabby demeanor was akin to Rafael's.

I could easily love her for it.

Racine answered her door when I knocked. I couldn't help but notice how exhausted she looked.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, alarmed.

Racine looked left and right like a fox on the run. She hurried outside the house and snapped the door shut behind her.

"Your father's been having nightmares," she said to me.

I could feel myself frowning before I was aware of it. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"I don't know," Racine said. She rubbed her face with her hands. "I tried that. I don't know what to do. That dad of yours just doesn't like talking, does he?"

"No," I said, with a remorseful smile. "He never did."

I met up with Dad at dinner that night, but for all intents and purposes, he was the same affable, melancholy Dad as ever. If his fingers shook when he picked up a plate of cornbread, or if he flinched whenever Cyrus At Dawn pat him on the back...well, nobody brought it to his attention. If you're Shoshone, and you see something unpleasant, you look the other way.

He decided to retire early, the bonfire still billowing brightly. I put my hand on his shoulder--slowly; I didn't want to startle him.

"Shinny," I said. "Want to teach Michaela after the monsoon?"

"Yes," he said, with one of his fleeting, distant smiles. "I'd like that."

The monsoon, once it hit, was debilitating. The winds whistled and roared and pushed so hard on the trees, they threatened to topple over. Rain rolled over Nettlebush in cold, howling, blasting sheets of ice water. The sky was dark, pitch black--so black that I wondered, momentarily, whether the moon had eclipsed the sun. It hadn't. The clouds had.

It rains so much during the monsoon that for a week or two, everyone in Nettlebush is trapped indoors. Tent rocks out in the badlands come crashing to the ground; the coyotes who sleep beneath them have to find a new home. Rainwater floods through the reservation like rapids through a broken dam. We get the last laugh, though. Our houses are built on raised, weighted porches. Even if the rainwater pushes and pulls at the foundation of the house, it's not going to make it into our home.

A few days into the monsoon and Mickey sat on her knees in front of the tall sitting room window, her hands pressed to the glass. Even with the oil lamps lit, it was too dark to see very far outside, save for the raindrops pounding like bullets on the windows and plashing in the brook like rising butterflies. Have you ever noticed that? How raindrops look like butterflies when they hit the ground? Watch the rain sometime, and you'll see what I mean. It's seriously cool.

"It can't hurt us," Mickey said slowly. "Right?"

"Nope," Rafael said. "The house is tough. It's been through eight monsoons already."

He sat nonchalantly on the sofa, his hair tucked behind his ear, a book open on his lap. Rafael loves his imaginary world. When he's not drawing, he's reading.

Mickey climbed onto the sofa on her knees. She jostled his shoulder with both of her hands.

"What?" he asked starkly.

"Your ear's pierced. Can I get mine pierced?"

I could practically envision the cogs turning in his head. "Rafael..." I warned.

"What?" he tossed at me. "Zeke didn't say we couldn't pierce her ears."

"He also didn't say we can't cover her in tattoos, but I'm not very eager to try it out, are you?"

"Don't be a smartass, smartass. Anyway, kids outside the rez get their ears pierced all the time, and nobody says jack to them."

"Jack."

"Jack who?"

Forget it, I thought glumly. I was outnumbered two to one.

Rafael closed his book and raced up the stairs. I could trace his route very clearly in my mind; he kept inks and needles and any variety of unpleasant things under our bed. Sure enough, he descended the staircase minutes later with an old-fashioned wood needle, a carved jewelry box, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

"Open," he said, and tossed the jewelry box on the sofa next to Mickey.

Mickey slid the lid open; her eyebrows rose all the way into her hairline. I didn't need to ask why. Rafael's earring collection is seriously impressive, considering all of them are handmade. There's a wolf, a dagger, a rose--I don't even remember all the rest.

"I get to have one?" Mickey asked.

"Whichever one you want," Rafael said. I could see his face fighting the smile threatening his lips.

Mickey rooted around in the jewelry box; for a while there was only the sound of iron clinking on iron to accompany the storm slapping and clattering against our windows.

"What're these?" she said, and pulled out a pair of charms.

Nostalgia hit me out of left field. One of the trinkets was made from painted glass, the other from smooth wood. Both were shaped like pilot whales, both dangling on the ends of willow strings.

"I haven't seen those since we built the house," I said, mystified. I took the charms from Michaela's hand.

"Damn," Rafael said. "I still remember when you made me this. Spring of 2001." He took the glass charm from my hand and wrapped it around his wrist.

"And the summer of 2006," I returned with a rising smile. "Same year you asked me to marry you." I swallowed up the little wooden pilot whale in the palm of my hand. "I've always said you were very good with woodwork."

"But what are they?" Mickey pressed. "They look like fish."

"Bite your tongue," I said, and tweaked her chin.

"Hell no," Rafael said at the same time, insistent. "They're pilot whales. You don't know what a pilot whale is?"

"Would I ask you if I knew?"

I snickered. Rafael threw me a quick look.

"Watch it," he said to me. "They're the most loyal animals on the planet," he said to Mickey. "They create whole communities out of their families, their extended families. If one of them gets sick or hurt on the migratory trail, the rest stick with him, even at the risk of never seeing their home again. They're all about sticking together."

Mickey looked from Rafael to me. She tried very hard to keep the emotion off her face--I could see it--but I could see something else there, too. Something like longing. This little girl, I thought, warmed and saddened at the same time. Eleven homes in three years. A real prize for a mother. It didn't surprise me that Mickey had never known togetherness. She'd never really known a family.

"Okay," Rafael said. "C'mere."

I held Mickey's hair for her while Rafael swabbed her skin and sterilized the needle. It's weird how completely unfazed she seemed. Most kids I know aren't too keen about getting poked with sharp objects.

"You know," I started talking. I wanted to calm her down, but I wasn't at all certain she needed calming down in the first place. "Rafael's good with tattoos, too. Have you seen the ones on his neck?"

"Uh-huh."

"Did you know he gave me a tattoo? I bet you can't guess where it is."

"You? Yeah, right."

She let out a tiny little gasp when the needle slid through her ear. I squeezed her shoulder. Just as quickly, Rafael pulled the needle out and clipped an earring in its place.

"How do I look?" Mickey asked. She turned her head my way.

"You look beautiful," I said. An iron rose hung delicately from her lobe. "Like a wild prairie rose."

Mickey's face lit up with a wide smile. I found it unexpected--and maybe she did, too. She quickly tried to hide it behind her long hair.

The next few days saw no change in the downpour. Lightning flashed across the sky; thunder boomed and rattled through the drab gray forest. I was starting to worry the beech trees would uproot. If they did, I thought, we'd probably be okay; we weren't particularly close to any copses.

Mickey, evidently, was more worried than I was. She sat in the sitting room wrapped up in a pendleton blanket, her eyes darting continually toward the wide windows. She flinched whenever lightning lit up the room.

I didn't want to embarrass her. I sat next to her and handed her a strong cup of yaupon tea. She sat sipping it without a word.

"Hey," I said to her, quietly, and nodded toward Rafael.

He sat slouched in his armchair, busily reading his way through a hardcover book. His eyes roamed like wildfire across the pages.

"Want to play a prank on him?" I whispered.

Her lips tilted slowly in an unkind smile. "How?"

"Rafael?" I said.

He lifted his head.

I smiled, eyebrows dancing. "Could you get us another cup of tea?"

"Sure," he said. He closed his book over and stalked off to the kitchen.

I reached underneath the couch cushion and pulled out a second book.

"What's that?" Mickey asked, and reached for it.

I made sure to keep it from her grasp. "A naughty book," I said. "You can read it when you're older."

"Why are there handcuffs on the cover?"

"Never mind that." I slipped the paper cover off the binding. "Go switch the covers," I said.

She giggled mischievously, the most beautiful little sound I'd ever heard. She swapped the book covers and brought both of them back to me. I dog-eared a page in the naughty book and tossed it on Rafael's seat. Its twin got stuffed beneath the sofa.

"Here," Rafael said when he returned. He handed me a mug of yaupon tea.

"Thank you very much."

Rafael sat down and opened the wrong book. Mickey buried her face in her pendleton blanket. She was laughing, I realized, and couldn't control it. Like a ripple effect, I started to laugh, too.

Rafael was halfway down the page when he slapped the book closed and threw it over his shoulder.

"I'm going to kill you," he swore, flustered, teeth gritted.

"We got you! We got you!" Mickey shrieked.

The days waned. Still no end to the monsoon in sight. One night I was listening to the rain washing over my bedroom window when the door creaked open and Mickey slipped inside.

"Can I sleep downstairs?" she whispered.

Rafael turned on the lamp. "Want a snack?"

The three of us trailed down the stairs and into the kitchen. Rafael lit the lamp next to the doorway. The rain was loud and pattering against the window above the icebox. Mickey drew back, apprehensive.

"Help me make cookies," I said. I tossed a handful of coals into the box beneath the stove.

Mickey was silent, her tongue poking out of her mouth, when we mixed the butter and the cream cheese. Rafael dug through the cabinets, grumbling, in search of acorn flour.

"You look kind of like the archangel," Mickey said to me.

I smiled quizzically. "What do you mean?"

She rolled her eyes at me. "Didn't you ever see that picture of Michael when he tosses the devil out of Heaven? His hair's curly and long and blond."

"Maybe I'm his long-lost evil twin," I said.

"You look a lot like him. But you're fatter."

I choked on nothing. Rafael grinned mercilessly at me. I swung the goop-covered spoon at his head. Splat went the dough, all over his lank hair.

"I was named after Michael," Mickey said proudly.

"Were you, sweetheart?" I asked. Rafael poured a ewer of water into the wash tub and dunked his head in. I tossed him a dish towel.

"Mom said so. She said she prayed to Michael that she'd miscarry. She didn't have the money for an abortion."

I met Rafael's eyes across the kitchen while he was towel drying his hair. He looked stunned, and a little ill--and I felt more uncomfortable than I could ever remember being. Usually I don't like to judge people; I feel as though none of us can ever fully know what it's like to have the thoughts and the emotions of another human being. But what kind of mother tells her daughter a story like that? Did she ever even consider how badly it would affect her daughter's confidence?

"I'm very glad you're with us, Mickey," I said.

She licked the batter from her thumb. She perused me with distrusting eyes.

"How long?" she asked.

I looked at Rafael again.

"We were kind of hoping you'd stay with us," Rafael mumbled.

"How long?" she repeated.

"As long as you'd like," I said. "It's all up to you."

I ran a wet rag along the messy counter. The cookies had another ten minutes to bake.

"I know what you're doing," Mickey burst out suddenly.

Rafael spun around, a candy bar in his mouth. He looked to me like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

But Mickey wasn't yelling at Rafael. She was yelling at me.

"You're going to make me love you," Mickey said. "Both of you. Then when I really love you, you're going to get tired of me!"

"We'll never get tired of you," I said.

"Everyone gets tired of me!"

Rafael started, "Michaela--"

She turned on him. And then--I hardly knew what she was doing--she pulled her shirt over her head.

"Look!" she yelled at him. "This is where she stabbed me! This is where she tried to kill me!"

I couldn't see what she was referring to. I could only see the freckles on her back, her shoulders hunched in dejection. But Rafael--he saw. His eyes jumped from Mickey to me, then back again--then back to me. His eyes were wide with horror.

I took Mickey's shoulders in my hands. I spun her around.

On her chest were thin, silver scars--three of them in total. The approximate size and shape of a knife blade.

Stab wounds.

I didn't have to wonder anymore why her mother had gone to prison.

Mickey wasn't crying. I think she must have had that instinct drained out of her very long ago. In all other regards, though, her face made for the saddest picture I had ever seen. She looked scared, and lost, and defeated, and no kid should ever look like that.

I hesitated. I dug my fingers underneath the collar of my turtleneck. I pulled it down.

Mickey's eyes jumped from the hardwood floor to the scars on my throat.

"I'm just like you," I said. "See? We're the same."

Mickey hiccoughed, her eyes round. I wanted to laugh--although I couldn't place why. I wanted to run my hands over her hair and hug her.

"Put your shirt back on," I said. "Let's go have cookies."

We milled out into the sitting room, the three of us, and sat on the rug by the window, the hearth flickering warmly. Mickey wrapped herself up in her pendleton blanket. Rafael scooped a cookie off the ceramic plate and crammed it into his mouth whole. I honestly didn't know which of the two had the stronger sweet tooth. I kind of felt like I was playing host to a family of sharks.

"Who cut you?" Mickey finally asked, wiping her hands on her blanket. I didn't have it in me to rebuke her.

"A bad man," I said. "He liked to hurt women."

"But you're not a woman."

Rafael opened his mouth as though he were about to protest. I jammed another cookie into his mouth in order to deter him. "No," I agreed, with the smallest of smiles. "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Rafael chewed. He swallowed. He tugged on his damp hair, something he only ever does when he's nervous.

"My dad was the bad guy," Rafael said. "The one who liked to hurt women."

Mickey looked between Rafael and me as though she might uncover whatever dishonesty we were hiding from her. But we weren't.

"Your dad was really bad?" Mickey asked.

"He was a serial killer," Rafael said. "He killed seven women."

He looked away, tugging on his hair again. "He killed Sky's mom."

Mickey looked puzzled. "But Racine..."

"Not my step-mom," I explained. "My mother. The first woman my father was married to."

"The one who listened to pop music."

I can't tell you why that made me smile as it did. "That's the one."

"So..." Mickey said. "Rafael's dad killed your mom, and then he tried to kill you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I smiled, and the muscles in my face felt tired and strained. "I don't know, honey," I said. "Some people are good and some people are bad. It's impossible to know why. But," I said, "I think it's a good thing that you can never understand it."

"How do you mean?"

"It means you're a wonderful person, of course."

She peered shyly at me from beneath curtains of long, brown hair.

"Michaela," I said.

"Mickey," she said. "I don't like that name. I hate my whore of a mother."

"I hate her, too," Rafael agreed. And he said it so passionately that I didn't doubt him. Then again, Rafael doesn't do anything dispassionately. "But you can't use that word."

"Why not? It's just a word."

"Alright," Rafael conceded gruffly, "you can use it, but only when it's the three of us."

"Awesome! That's more than my last foster mom let me do!"

I smiled at Rafael. "You were conned."

"Shut up, Sky," he said, bashful and disgruntled.

"Mickey," I tried again. "If you want to stay with us--or if you want to leave--that's entirely up to you. I'd like to think you're in charge of this. But I'd also like to think you can consider us your friends. When something's bothering you, or something's making you sad, you can tell us about it, you know."

Mickey fell silent, her eyes tracing the pattern of the blue rug.

"My mom always hated me," she said. "She said it was my fault my dad left her. I don't know my dad, never met him... He left when she was pregnant with me. He didn't want me, either."

I wanted more than ever to take her into my arms. I just didn't know how she'd react.

"We want you," Rafael said.

Mickey looked sideways at him.

"I've wanted you for a long time," Rafael said. "I was waiting for you."

"He was," I told her, smiling mutedly. "Every day you didn't come, he got even crabbier, if you can believe it."

"That must have been scary," Mickey said. I couldn't help but noticed she sounded pleased.

I carried the empty ceramic plate to the kitchen. Maybe tomorrow I'd remembered to wash it. When I returned to the sitting room, I found that the lamp was turned off. Firelight danced across Rafael and Mickey's faces. Mickey was bundled up in her pendleton blanket, a quilt underneath her. Rafael must have made a trip upstairs without my noticing.

"C'mere," Rafael said, and gestured to me.

Warmed from the inside out, I lay on the quilt with the two of them. Rafael tossed his arm around me. Mickey wriggled her way between us.

"Show me your tattoo," she demanded of me.

I rolled up my left sleeve. A tawny atlas moth rested beneath my shoulder, wings ragged, worn with age.

Mickey prodded the atlas moth with her cold, sticky fingers, like she might tempt it into beating its wings. She followed the freckles down my arms and prodded those, too.

"You've got freckles," she said. "Just like me."

I can't begin to explain how ridiculously happy I felt.

"That's right," I said. "Just like you."

7

A Woodsorrel in Winter

The end of the monsoon brought out a new wave of high spirits on the Nettlebush Reserve. Sunny yellow Indian Mallows poked cheerfully out of the puddles on the ground. The clouds parted in the blue sky, the sun stronger and brighter than before. Neighbors rushed out of their homes to greet the friends they hadn't seen in weeks. I thought with longing of my grandmother, a stern, irascible woman who used to despise the yearly monsoons. Actually, I think it was rain in general she disliked. All it took was one raindrop to render her gloomy and withdrawn.

Nobody was gloomy and withdrawn now. On the contrary, the whole of the reservation was practically imbibed with mirth. A large part of that probably had something to do with the birth of Annie's baby girls.

Dozens of well-wishers flocked out to the farmland to greet the two newest additions to the reservation. Annie carried them in double cradleboards on her back. It was amazing how quickly she had regained her vitality. The babies sat on her back, shaded by the sun, peering astoundedly at their surroundings while she hilled the crops and milked the cows. And they didn't cry.

"How come they aren't crying?" Mickey asked.

Annie sat with them beneath an apple tree on Mrs. Siomme's ranch. They rested on the lush grass in their safe, tight swaddling.

"Shoshone babies don't cry," Annie dismissed placidly. "Only when they're hungry or soiled."

"But why? How do you get 'em to stop crying?"

"I'll tell you when you're older," I said.

Annie's stream of visitors was endless. Charity showed up to croon over the twins and Daisy At Dawn told everyone who would listen that she had delivered them herself. "They copied us," said Daisy's dismal twin, Holly. "What are their names?" asked a very excited Autumn Rose In Winter.

"Celia and Elizabeth," Annie said. "For our mothers."

Even at dinnertime, all anybody wanted to do was fawn over the babies. It reached the point where Nicholas, usually a menace and a brat, imposed himself protectively between the admirers and his new baby sisters and wouldn't let anyone come closer.

"Aren't they cute, Uncle Paul?" Jessica asked.

Dad looked up from the picnic table, distracted. "I'm sorry?"

"I think you've been living on the moon lately," Jessica said. "The babies. Aren't they cute?"

"Oh. Yes, of course," Dad said. "Excuse me..."

He wandered away from the table. Jessica and I frowned at each other.

"Maybe he needs to see a therapist," Jessica suggested.

"I don't think he'd ever go willingly," I said. "And even if we convinced him, I'm sure he'd keep his feelings to himself and sit in silence for the whole session."

"Therapy's overrated, anyway," Jessica decided.

"Is that your professional opinion?"

"You never went to therapy, did you? I mean, how could you have? You didn't talk for most of your life. And look at you! You turned out just fine."

I pretended I was watching Henry Siomme hand out sourdough bread to the old folks. He looked so much like his mother, his face personable and strong, his eyes dark green.

"I did go to a therapist," I finally said. "When I was very little."

"Really?" Jessica said. "But you couldn't talk. You didn't even know sign language back then, did you? What did you do together?"

"Have you seen DeShawn anywhere?" I asked.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. DeShawn!" Jessica yelled, rising from her seat. "Get your butt over here!"

Dad's distraction lasted well into the next day, when he met with Mickey and me in the windmill field. He handed the both of us shinny sticks and showed us the tapikolo--a buckskin sack stuffed with pine nuts.

"You're supposed to have ten players," Dad said, "but we'll make do with three."

We spent an hour batting the tapikolo back and forth, each of us trying to knock it past the other. Mickey proved to be a lot stronger than her twig-thin arms had led me to believe; at one point she knocked the tapikolo so far away, it hit the base of a windmill and rolled downhill toward Luke Owns Forty's house.

"This is just like hockey," Mickey said with approval.

Dad's smile was diluted and wan. In so many ways, he was only a shadow of himself. Ways that made me want to hug him and never let go.

"Mickey," he said, "do you like baseball?"

"Baseball's awesome," Mickey said. "Hockey's the best, but baseball's the second best."

I found myself smiling. "The two of you should go to a game sometime."

Dad's face looked pained with anxiety. "I can't..."

"You can, Dad," I said, and smiled sadly. "You're a free man. The police can't chase you off the reservation anymore."

His face crumpled. He looked away. He was a free man. He was a haunted one.

Mickey jostled Dad's arm.

"Yes?" he said, starting.

"If we go to a game, could we buy peanuts, like the song?"

Slowly, Dad started to smile. "Of course."

I checked my wristwatch. Much as I didn't like it, I had to get a letter in to Pima County Consolidated before the weekend. "Sorry, guys," I said.

"It's okay," Mickey said. "Just as long as we play again tomorrow."

Dad walked Mickey and me home. Rafael was stuck in the hospital until late afternoon. I couldn't imagine what for. How many kids in Nettlebush actually swallow their pencils? Maybe he'd landed a pro bono case from off the reserve.

"Can I have ice cream tonight?" Mickey asked me.

"You know something? I think that's a great idea. Dad?" I said. "Why don't we try Grandpa's recipe again?"

Dad almost smiled. "It was a complete fiasco the last time we tried it..."

The door to the house was unlocked. Small wonder. We stepped inside and found Zeke Owns Forty sitting in the front room and snacking on a honey biscuit.

"Hi!" he exclaimed, spraying crumbs all over the place.

"Ugh," Mickey said, pinching her forehead. "Is this one of those surprise checkups?"

"Yeah, but it's just a technicality. I'm not gonna drill you. Just pretend I asked a bunch of questions and you answered them. This bread is awesome! Skylar, man, do you remember that time I wore my shirt inside out and I didn't know it? Hahaha, that was crazy! Why do they stick the tag on the inside where it itches?"

"I'm so sorry, Zeke," I said. "I really don't understand the way your brain works."

"That's okay," Zeke said, and trailed into the sitting room.

"Skylar," Dad said. "Could I talk to you for a second?"

I braced myself. Dad never called me "Skylar" unless something serious was on his mind.

Dad and I left Mickey and Zeke in the sitting room while we went into the kitchen. I started looking through the cabinets for cocoa powder. Cocoa powder and sour cream. Weird combination for ice cream, but it works.

"I still can't get used to it," Dad admitted to me.

I looked up. "Used to being free?"

He looked caught off guard. "No, not that," he said. "Used to you talking. For years, I've wanted to talk with you."

I could feel myself smiling. "I know, Dad. I've wanted to talk with you, too."

Dad paused. I could feel a shift in the atmosphere, and not a pleasant one. Uh-oh, I thought.

"So..." he started. "Is there anything you've wanted to tell me, but couldn't?"

That's the thing about Dad. He's known me for so long that he knows what I'm feeling, even when I don't voice it. I've never needed a voice to tell him the important things.

But this one thing I hadn't told him--maybe it was kind of important after all.

Not as important as his peace of mind. I thought about his little brother falling from the boughs of the willow tree.

I cleared my throat. "No, Dad."

"Ah...you're sure...?"

"I just rearranged an old guy's larynx," came an unexpected proclamation. "It was awesome."

I looked up suddenly. I bit back a smile. Rafael was home.

"Don't drag your germs into the sitting room," I called out. Rafael never bothers changing out of his scrubs after work. It's kind of gross.

"I'd better go," Dad murmured.

"What?" I tried to read his facial expression. As usual, I couldn't. "Why?"

"It's nothing. I'm just a little tired."

"Oh," I said. But I had the feeling that was just an excuse. "Okay. I'll see you at the pauwau, right?"

Dad nodded, suddenly forty years older in countenance. He said a brief goodbye and walked out the front door.

I felt oddly cold when I went into the sitting room. Mickey, Rafael, and Zeke sat around the standing radio and listened to the Nettlebush station. Rafael had exchanged his scrubs for flannel.

"Hey," Rafael said. He looked up at me; and then he looked again. It's one of the few things he has in common with my father. The both of them always know what's going through my mind.

"Zeke," Rafael said, "get out."

"Aw, come on!"

The overgrown child clamored and complained for a few solid seconds before ultimately darting out the door. Mickey didn't so much as lift her head. I guess the radio had her transfixed.

"You okay?" Rafael mouthed to me.

Dad's acting weird, I signed.

Dad didn't show up at dinner that night. Autumn Rose In Winter handed out plates of smoked catfish--his favorite meal--and I didn't see him anywhere. I was starting to feel anxious.

"He didn't want to be around the crowds," Racine told me.

But that didn't match up with Dad's personality at all. He was one of the most somber, awkward guys I knew--but he was also very personable. Take him away from human companionship and he wilts like a woodsorrel in winter.

"Skylar," Mickey said. "What's a pauwau?"

I was sitting by the bonfire with Lila and Joseph Little Hawk when Mickey walked over to me and tugged on my hair--a very effective means of grabbing my attention.

"Ow," I said. "It's like a party," I explained. "Why?"

Mickey shrugged. "Nicholas said there's going to be a pauwau soon, and then he made fun of me because I didn't know what it was."

"He gets that from me," Lila said matter-of-factly. She signed briefly to Joseph.

Are you proud of that? Joseph signed back.

I put my hand on Mickey's head. "A bunch of different tribes get together," I said. "And we celebrate the things that make us alike and the things that make us different. We dress up and dance, we play music and games, we tell stories..."

"We pig out," Lila said. "It's the only time of year I'm not watching my beautiful figure."

"Right, that."

Mickey tilted her head. "Dress up? Dress up how? In costumes?"

"In regalia," I said. "Our traditional clothes. The clothes we would have worn hundreds of years ago."

"Oh," Mickey said. And she fell silent, biting the head off a wild onion.

Later, when we went home for the night, I pulled Rafael aside.

"Mickey doesn't have regalia," I said.

"What are you talking about?" Rafael said. "Everybody has...oh. Yeah," he said, "I forgot she didn't grow up here."

"What should we do?" I asked.

I knew what I would have liked to done. My grandmother used to be the best seamstress on the whole reservation. If she were still with us, I would have asked for her help.

It's weird how the longing doesn't lessen with age.

"What about Aunt Rosa?" Rafael asked. "She's pretty good with a needle. Bet you she'd help."

So I paid a visit to Rosa and Gabriel's house the very next day. Rosa and Charity were butchering mutton in the kitchen. I tried not to throw up.

"She needs regalia?" Charity asked, her face lighting up. "She's such a cute little girl. I'd love to help. Wouldn't you, Mom?"

"I have a nice summer elkskin," Rosa said slowly. That's usually the way she talks; slow, enunciating, like she's uncertain of herself. "We can cut it and sew it."

Rosa sent me out to the woods to collect dyes. I followed the lake's trickling tributaries and plucked the little white lilies hiding between the weeds. We call those lilies bloodroot because--as you've probably already surmised--the roots and the stems are a rich, deep red. From there I followed the route where the forest looped back to the badlands. Here were where the skinks lived, curious little lizards with bright blue tails. I didn't have it in me to grab any live lizards. Luckily for me the drier parts of the forest floor are littered with their skeletons. I collected and pocketed a few of the skulls. Skinks bones make a pretty good match for opals, and they're nowhere near as expensive. If you've ever seen a portrait of an old Plains man covered in bone jewelry, well, that's where it comes from.

I went back to Rosa's house. Rosa and Charity were sitting outside against the trunk of the colossal southern oak.

"Look," Charity said to me, and held up a long, tan sheet of elkskin.

Poor elk, I thought foolishly.

The three of us crushed lemons in an empty vat, the citric stench overpowering. Rosa and Charity soaked the elkskin in the lemon bleach while I ground up the bloodroot in a ceramic bowl. The goldfinches hidden in the pockets of the southern oak sang in a clear, bright vibrato. In a place like Nettlebush, you can practically feel the earth as it grows beneath you, rich with nutrients, teeming with life. The pale turmeric whorling on the hills was the color of stardust. The bull pines were soft canopies above the cozy log homes. Even the sun seemed genial in its way, shimmering, white-gold as a king's brocade.

I had a thought just then. I stole a glance at Rosa and Charity while I was hanging the elkskin up to dry from the lowest of the tree branches. Mother and daughter looked impossibly alike: kind, sweet, round faces, eyes as warm as a welcoming hearth. I was indebted to mother and daughter alike. A literal part of them lived inside of me.

I touched the scars at the base of my throat. I hid a smile. I didn't miss wearing those stupid turtlenecks, that's for sure.

The night of the pauwau brought with it a certain air of excitement. In a matter of hours, our sister tribes would flood into the reservation and bring with them their own customs and stories. In a way, a pauwau is exactly like a family reunion. I remember a pauwau I attended on the Navajo reservation some years back. The Navajo tribal council interrupted the Enemy Way dance to alert us that they had found a missing little boy. "If anyone lost a boy named Keith Kinyani," said the speaker, his voice magnified by his microphone, "could you please report to the council tent?" Everybody laughed. "He's doing just fine," the councilman went on. "He knows he's among his people."

Mickey lay on her belly on the sitting room floor, aptly reading one of the books Rafael had bought for her. The oil lamp glowed low, the forest outside the windows dark under an amaranth sky.

"Psst," I said.

Mickey lifted her head.

"Come with me for a second," I said.

She closed her book and followed me up the staircase. I pushed open the door to her bedroom and she stepped inside.

She drew back in the doorway. "What's that?"

The regalia lay across her bed, a small white elkskin dress adorned at the elbows with brilliant red fringe. Lila had given me a pair of her old moccasins to keep. They rested on the carpet, untied.

Mickey looked back and forth between the moccasins and regalia so rapidly, I thought her head might rocket off her shoulders. Finally she turned on me. She summoned herself up as tall as she could--very imposing, at least if I were a five-year-old--and addressed me with stern authority.

"Is this really for me, or are you pulling my leg?"

"It's really for you," I said. "I thought you might like to wear it to the pauwau. But don't forget to thank Charity and Rosa later."

"Does it fit?"

"Why don't you try it on and see?"

I went outside the bedroom while Mickey changed her clothes. I couldn't keep myself from smiling. I remembered my first regalia, years and years ago. Your first regalia is something you never forget. It's like your official induction into the tribe.

"Okay," Mickey called out.

I stepped back inside.

If I tell you she looked adorable, and leave it at that, I'm sure you won't believe me. Either you'll think I'm biased--which I probably am--or you'll think it isn't heartfelt. Where's all the gushing?

She looked adorable. She looked like a wild little rose blossom standing alongside the dirt road. She looked like a tiny little princess, regnant over all her dominion. She looked proud and snub and haughty and small--smaller still when she shrank under my scrutiny, her haughtiness dissipating, her dangling earring resting on her shoulder.

"I've never worn a dress before," she said.

I walked across the room to her closet; I opened the door. Rafael had nailed a standing mirror to the inside of the door some years ago. He wasn't kidding when he said he'd wanted her for a very long time.

Mickey's eyes landed on the mirror. I followed them as they drank in the cozy details of the regalia, the red willow drawstrings and the embroidered hem.

"I look pretty," she whispered, incredulous.

"That's because you're beautiful," I replied.

She spun around to face me. Her eyes were like saucers. I wanted to pinch her freckled cheeks and kiss the crown of her head.

When did I start wanting a child as much as Rafael did? Sure, I'd always looked forward to it--but only because I'd thought it would make Rafael happy. I like kids well enough, but I've never fantasized about having one of my own.

I wanted this little girl. I wanted her to stay with us until she was all grown up, until Rafael and I were old and feeble and hard of hearing. I can't quite place when these feelings first started. I suppose they must have crept up on me out of nowhere.

Mickey shifted on her heels. All of a sudden, she beamed at me.

"Red's my favorite color," she said.

I smiled back. "I'm not surprised in the least," I said. "Let's make sure Rafael hasn't eaten all the sunflower cakes."

She waited for me on the landing while I dressed in green deerhide regalia: matching trousers and overcoat, a dark breechclout and moccasins. Together we went down into the kitchen, where--to no one's surprise--Rafael was bent over the pine table, dressed in gray regalia and working his way through the four dozen sunflower cakes Annie and I had spent the better half of a day preparing.

"Those are for the pauwau," Mickey scolded.

Rafael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So?" he defended. "I'm going to the pauwau, aren't I?"

We packed the remainder of the cakes into boxes. Together we carried them out the door. We hiked down the forest path, crickets noisy in their treetop homes.

"So many stars," Mickey said, her head tilted back.

"Can you spot the north star?" I asked.

"No. Which one is that?"

"First you've gotta find the bears," Rafael said. "There's a big bear and a little bear in the sky. Can you see 'em?"

Mickey walked with her head tipped back. I was afraid she was going to collide with a tree. I shifted my boxes to one arm and stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. The three of us stood still while she mapped the sky with her eyes.

"They all look like stars," she answered, baffled. "I don't see any bears."

"You're not using your imagination," Rafael accused.

"Look for groups of really bright stars," I suggested.

"Well," Mickey said after a long moment, "that one kind of looks like a bear...sort of..."

"Can you find the one that looks like its baby?"

"Stupid bears," Mickey grumbled. I wondered with wry humor whether she had developed something of an aversion to them. "Yeah, I guess the one that's up a little further..."

"Okay," Rafael said, "now look between those bears, and pick out the brightest star."

"That's easy."

"Good. That's the north star."

"Why is it called the north star?" Mickey asked.

" 'Cause it's only visible from the northern hemisphere, or some junk like that."

"Rafael," I said, "why don't you tell her the story?"

"What story?" he said. But as soon as he'd asked, he seemed to remember. "Hey, Mickey," he said.

"What?" Her eyes were still on the stars.

"You know the stars are always moving in the sky?"

"They are?"

"Yeah. But not the north star. The north star stands still."

"How come?"

I smiled to myself.

"Long ago," Rafael said--and he lapsed into his storyteller's voice, the voice that lies dormant within every Shoshone heart. "Before there were Plains People, there were Sky People."

Mickey looked sharply at me, probably searching for a correlation. I shrugged and grinned.

"The Sky People were the first humans," Rafael said. "And they lived in a world that exists only in the sky. And that world was just like ours. There were plains, and mountains, and valleys, and pretty much everything else you can think of."

"Computers?" Mickey asked.

"What the hell?" Rafael said. "Am I telling this story or not?"

Mickey rolled her eyes. "You said 'pretty much everything'..."

"Alright, alright. So there were computers."

"Good."

"Anyway," Rafael said, exasperated. "At that time, there was a little boy, a Sky boy, who loved to climb mountains. His name was--"

"Skylar," Mickey supplied.

"Would you stop interrupting me?"

Mickey giggled incessantly. I joined her. I high-fived her, too. Rafael threw me a scandalized look, like her mischievous streak was my fault. I returned it angelically.

"His name was Mutsachi," Rafael went on. "Which means Little Mountain Sheep. Because, you know, his father was a shepherd. But also because he loved to climb mountains.

"One day Little Mountain Sheep found the biggest mountain in the sky. It was so awesome, so huge, he just knew he had to climb it. So he started to climb.

"He climbed for days. He was so wrapped up in his journey that he forgot about eating, or drinking, or any of those boring things the rest of us are supposed to do so we don't kick the bucket. He was exhausted when he reached the top, but he finally made it. He was so happy. But then he realized he was hungry, and thirsty, and there was nothing to eat or drink."

"So go back down the mountain," Mickey urged.

"Would you let me finish?" Rafael said. "He couldn't go back down the mountain, because he'd unearthed too many rocks while he was climbing it, and now the mountainside was steep as hell. Little Mountain Sheep searched the peak for birds' eggs, falcons, anything he might eat--but there was nothing. It was like nothing ever climbed that mountain before he did. He wanted to go back home. But he couldn't figure out a safe way down, and his body was too tired to move. So he lay down on the mountain peak, and he closed his eyes to go to sleep. And he died."

"He died?" Mickey blurted out.

"Hold on, I'm not finished. Little Mountain Sheep's father was called Tsinnahi, or Makes Them Laugh. Anyway, Makes Them Laugh realized his son was missing. So he went looking everywhere for him, all throughout the hunting grounds, but he couldn't find him. Makes Them Laugh started praying to the Wolf--"

"Why was he praying to a Wolf?" Mickey cut in. By now we had resumed our walk.

"Because the Wolf is a conduit for the Great Spirit," Rafael said. "He's one half of God. The good half. And the Coyote is the bad half."

"God has a good half and a bad half?"

"Nothing in this world is strictly good or strictly bad, there's good and bad everywhere. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, so the shepherd started praying to the Wolf. 'Please, show me where my son is.' That's when he had a vision that Little Mountain Sheep had died."

"That really sucks..." Mickey mumbled.

"The shepherd was in so much pain, he couldn't stop crying. He cried so much that even Coyote felt badly for him. So Wolf and Coyote decided they would bring his son back the only way they knew how. They turned him into a star."

"Oh!"

"And now he's the brightest star in the sky--but he's still stuck at the top of that mountain. So that's why he doesn't move."

We walked past the firepit on our way to the windmill field, dozens of families joining us in their handmade regalia. I spared a glance at the rich night sky, midnight blue-into-black; I spotted the north star, prominent above all others. A father's love for his child must be the most potent power on earth.

"If I turned into a star," Mickey prompted, "would you come visit me?"

"We'd turn into stars, too," I promised. "That way you'd never be alone."

A large, towering bonfire crackled in the center of the field. The windmills spun, stopped, then spun again, prompted by the changing night winds. Immaculata Quick sprinkled crushed sage all over the grass, occasionally tossing glowering looks at Reverend Allen Calling Owl, who returned them with twitchy reproach. I guess the shaman and the reverend will always be doomed to disagreements, no matter who takes up their mantles.

I slid my plains flute out from underneath my overcoat, the brittle bird bones around my neck on a thin leather cord. I spotted Leon and Nicholas Little Hawk hanging out with their uncles. Annie and Aubrey must have stayed home with the babies. I was about to approach the kids when a discordial shout disrupted my train of thought.

"Nihatta! Nian tua nia yaakkin tukuna pauwau, haka tsao suwa pauwau ma'i? Kuttaan nu hupichi, nu kee tunaakasuwanna ma uku tammattsimmuh..."

"Alright, Mother, alright," Gabriel said. I should have known.

"Hey, Grandma Gives Light," Mary said. "Why do you pretend you don't speak English? Is it your righteous fury toward the white man?"

"Taipo'o nian tama kappayummuh innuntukkahppuh! Nia punni!"

"Bet your grandma would've liked mine," Rafael told me gruffly.

"I'm not sure about that," I said. "Granny never appreciated public displays."

"Gather around the fire, guys," said Meredith Siomme, a member of the tribal council. Her smile was calming and warm, as warm as the flames.

Everyone formed a circle around the bonfire. We linked our arms together and Mickey looked up at me with confusion. I felt DeShawn wriggle his way in at my left side. "Hello, Skylar," he said pleasantly. "We're putting up ten Kiowa at my place, can you believe it?" I spotted Dad on the other side of the fire, his head bowed, his eyes distracted. I wanted to talk to him. Now wasn't the time.

"Thank you, kindest of planets," Allen Calling Owl called out. "For the generosity by which we live. For the opportunity to know our neighbors as brothers and sisters. For..."

Immaculata sneaked up behind him and clapped her hands.

"Damn you!"

"That was the best prayer ever," Jessica said solemnly, when the circle broke for the evening.

The rest of the tribes began slowly piling onto the reservation. Among them were the Hopi--in blanket-like regalia and alien hairstyles--and the Timbisha Shoshone--Shoshone who settled down in the desert while the majority of us left for the Plains. The desert Shoshone didn't wear deerhide and elkskin like the rest of us did. Instead they were clad in yucca and red ochre face paint. That's where the term "redskin" comes from, as a matter of fact. Tribes like the Beothuk and the desert Shoshone always wore red paint on their cheeks--because body paint is a sign of peace--and the clueless white settlers mistook it for their natural pigment.

The opening ceremony started with a shawl dance. Serafine and Charity and Autumn Rose In Winter led the young girls out to the windmills and they danced, whirling and fierce, their shawls flying about their arms in a colorful blur. To look at them, they were the very picture of power, of natural destruction. Even now the shawl dance makes me think of a devastating tornado: tragic, unmatched in prowess, and you can't take your eyes away.

"That looks so cool..." Mickey whispered.

"It's the shawl dance," I whispered back. Daisy At Dawn struck the double-skin drum with the flats of her hands. "You know about the north star's father. Do you know about his mother?"

Mickey shook her head.

"When she realized her child had gone missing, she went out to find him, just as his father had done. She carried a warm blanket on her arm--a shawl--which she intended to wrap around him as soon as they were reunited. But the more she walked, the more despondent she grew. She walked for years with that blanket on her arm. When she saw the north star high in the sky, and she realized what had become of her child, she danced a mourning dance. She danced, and she danced, the shawl spinning around her shoulders. She wrapped herself up in that shawl just like a cocoon. She cried herself to sleep. And she slept in there for ten days, until finally, she emerged as the world's first butterfly."

We clapped when the dance had reached its conclusion. Autumn Rose scurried over to DeShawn and kissed his cheek. The pauwau had officially begun.

"If I turned into a butterfly," Mickey said, "would you come looking for me?"

"First I'd get a net," I told her seriously. "A very big one. And then I'd have to chase you."

Each tribe began dancing simultaneously, a harmless, competitive comparison of their styles. The Hopi imitated the flight of the majestic eagle and the Navajo leapt and lunged like warriors on the prowl. The austerely dressed Pawnee sat like old-timers on the ground and shared a calumet. Mary stole rolls of piki bread and threw them at unsuspecting bystanders' heads and Reuben Takes Flight looked on with stoic disapproval. Mickey helped me spread the sunflower cakes on the lawn and a pair of Chumash toddlers raced over to try them.

Rafael was chasing after an unrepentant Mary when Dad came and sat down with Mickey and me.

"Still so hard to believe that Caias is a father now..."

I followed Dad's gaze. Boys from our tribe were performing a grass dance by the bonfire, their arms held aloft, their steps cautious and deliberate. It made me think of a spirit walking on water. Henry Siomme was among them, a carefree smile on his face.

I gave Dad a smile of my own, a smile meant to mask my thoughts. Dad had missed out on most of his friends' and family's lives. In a way, it was as though the rest of us lived in the future, while Dad could only ever observe us from the past.

I really hated that.

"Mr. Looks Over," said Mickey. Oh, what a sweetheart. I could have clapped. "Do you dance?"

Dad considered. "Badly," he stipulated. "And you can call me Paul."

I picked up my flute and smiled, eyebrows dancing. "Why don't you show her your straight dance?"

"Is there a gay dance, too?" Mickey asked.

Dad's face colored as bright as a beet. Poor Dad. In some ways you'd be hard pressed to find a shyer man.

"It's," he started. "That's not, um. That's not what he means..."

"It's a war dance," I explained. "But not like what those crazy Navajo are doing over there." Mickey followed my eyes when I pointed out the combatant Navajo in bright silks and feathered mantles. "When Shoshone went to 'war' with another tribe, no killing was involved."

"Then how the heck did they fight?"

"Show her, Dad," I said.

Dad pressed his lips together grimly. I grinned. He rose from the ground in his burnt orange regalia. He looked around.

"Does anybody have an eagle fan?" I called out. I struggled to raise my voice. One of the few things my new vocal folds don't know how to do is shout. "Or an eagle stick?"

"Here you go, honey!" said Robert Has Two Enemies. He tossed a beaded stick my way and I barely just caught it. Reuben Takes Flight nodded with approval.

"Dad?" I prompted.

Dad took the stick from me and inspected it. It was long and hollow, carved from smooth elm, decorated with clay beads and--toward the very end--an eagle feather.

By now the drummers had stopped striking their drums. The dancers dwindled one by one to a stop.

I brought my flute to my lips. I began to play the Song of the Fallen Warrior.

I don't think anybody really knows why it's called a "straight dance." When our ancestors still roamed the Plains, when they hunted the buffalo and settled disputes without bloodshed, they always performed this dance just before approaching the battlefield.

Dad crouched low to the ground, his eyes downcast. We have a story about how the Plains People were one with the earth, happy and content, before the Coyote tricked us into living on the surface. If you were to see Dad dance, I'm sure you would feel the way I felt: like he was trying desperately to find his way back home beneath the soil. He danced low to the ground, two steps at a time, the dance of a man reconsidering the path he walks in life. Every now and again he straightened up and looked around, a Plains warrior scouting enemy terrain.

On occasion I abruptly interrupted the song. Whenever the music stopped, the other Plains tribes knew exactly what to do. Together they filled the silence with war whoops, warbling cries both joyful and sad; sad because war is inevitable, joyful because Plains People found a way to achieve it without hurting one another.

A few Kiowa men joined the dance in their yellow deerhide and tanned otter pelts. So did a Shawnee woman, a feather jutting out of her beaded headband, and a Pawnee pair with shaved heads.

Now came the best part.

I've said that war for the Shoshone was never about spilling blood. How we fought our battles was by counting coup--tapping an enemy warrior and running back to your tribe without getting caught.

The dancers began to count coup. Plains Shoshone chased after Pawnee and Plains Apache chased after Cheyenne. The men and the women reached for one another with their hands, or their eagle sticks, or their eagle fans, or whatever item they had on their person. Whenever a dancer was successfully tagged he held his hand up--a show of respect--and bowed out of the performance, conceding defeat. The number of dancers slowly decreased.

"One can never accuse a Native of not knowing how to party," said Kaya, when she came and sat next to me. The Kiowa banged on their gourd drum, and the Hopi shook their rattles and their bells, and somebody lost their kid in the fray, but that's alright--he was among his people.

The final few dancers were Dad, Mr. Red Clay, and a Pawnee man with a bright red mohawk. Dad and the Pawnee man were too polite to try and supplant each other--so Mr. Red Clay supplanted them both. The spectators whooped and cheered. Mr. Red Clay raised his hand. Kaya walked off to chat with the Kiowa drummers.

"How do you play the flute?" Mickey asked me. Rafael sat down with us and a group of children began to play a hoop game.

I handed her the flute. "Cover the second and third hole and blow into it," I instructed.

She did. The flute whistled, low and reedy. She drew back as though bitten.

"Cool," she said. "Teach me more!"

"Cubby," Dad said. "Could I have a quick word?"

"Try some ashbread," Rafael said to Mickey. "It's good."

I got up and followed Dad past the windmills. We walked the downhill slope past Mr. Owns Forty's house. The pauwau lights and celebratory sounds muffled behind us.

Dad had said he'd wanted a word--but now he wasn't talking. It kind of made me antsy, because for a moment, I forgot that I could do the talking instead.

"I'm sorry," he eventually said.

"What for?" I asked.

"I missed out on most of your life. Going to college...getting your voice back... Even when you--got married," he said awkwardly. As accepting as he was, I think he still found it jarring that I loved another man.

"That wasn't your fault, Dad," I said. "You don't really think I blamed you for that, do you?"

He bowed his head. It drives me nuts when he does that. It's the quintessential Shoshone gesture of noncommittal ambiguity. I'm serious. If you're ever locked in a room with a Shoshone, and he starts bowing his head, you know he's hiding something. In which case I suggest breaking down the door and running for it.

I reached for Dad's hand. He pulled away, probably by instinct. I didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

"I'm sure we all wish we could change the past," I said. "But we can't. Why don't we focus on the future instead?"

"The future...yes..." For a moment I was afraid I'd lost him; his eyes were out of focus. "Do you think you'll adopt Michaela?" he eventually asked.

My heart jumped. "I hope so," I said. To actually have a daughter--a daughter with Rafael...

"I just hope she doesn't go running for the bears again," Dad murmured.

"I think we've put that behind us...I hope."

"Are you sure she's been to a psychiatrist already?"

"Positive." A cold weight settled in the center of my stomach. "Dad?"

"Yes?"

I didn't know whether I really ought to tell this to him. At the same time, I didn't know what would happen if I kept it to myself.

"Remember when you had me seeing a child therapist?" I asked.

We walked underneath a patch of bull pines. Suddenly I couldn't see Dad's face anymore. I couldn't see his eyes. I couldn't see the moon.

I didn't like it.

"Yes," Dad said.

Now what? I didn't know what to say. I mean, I knew what to say--I just didn't know how.

"I already know," Dad said.

I wasn't immediately sure I had heard him correctly.

"I said I know, Skylar. I know something happened between the two of you."

That weight in my stomach felt like it was rising through my chest, through my throat. I was afraid I was going to throw up. I sat down on fallen pine brush. I really wished I could see the moon.

"Do you think I didn't know?" Dad asked. His voice--it didn't sound like his voice. It didn't sound right. "When you came out of that office shaking--when you threw up at night? Do you think I didn't know? Why do you think I stopped taking you there?"

He knew. It never occurred to me. He knew.

A part of me wanted to ask: If you knew, then why didn't you tell me?

"Because you couldn't talk back," Dad said. "If I talked to you--you couldn't talk back. And I didn't want you to. I didn't want to hear it out loud. I didn't...that made it..."

He didn't want to know. I didn't want him to know.

We're Shoshone men, he and I. If we close our eyes and cover our ears, the unpleasant truth isn't there.

I could hear it when Dad sat next to me, fallen oak leaves and pine needles shifting under his weight. I could see his shadow next to mine. He used to be a bear of a man. He never used to be so frail.

"I've failed," Dad said. "My son, my son's mother...my brother--"

"Stop," I said.

He stopped.

"You haven't failed anyone," I said. "You gave me confidence. You gave me a family and friends. Uncle Julius died because accidents happen everyday. Mom died because we live in a world where people like to hurt each other, and I don't know why. You didn't do any of that, Dad. It's not your fault."

"Letting a stranger molest my son? Was that my fault?"

"No," I said quietly. And then: "No," I said, louder still. "You got me out of there. You saved me. You seem to be forgetting that."

"The truth is that I've never saved anyone," Dad said. "I've only brought heartache to the people I love. If Racine's smart, she'll--"

"She'll what? Leave you?"

He didn't respond.

I swallowed a sigh that burned its way uncomfortably through my chest. I stood up.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," I said. "Let's go back to the pauwau. I have a husband and a child waiting for me. And you have your wife."

We walked back to the pauwau grounds together, Dad as stiff and unresponsive as stone. Loud, cheerful music welcomed us back to the festivities; men and women lined up for the javelin toss and Grandma Gives Light sat between Mickey and Charity, nattering a mile a minute. I couldn't imagine what she was saying to them. I couldn't imagine much of anything right now. I felt like I'd left a part of myself in the lightless pine thicket.

There comes a moment in every boy's life when he grows up and realizes his father isn't a superhero. I just never realized his father experiences that moment, too.

8

Second Heartbeat

"Can I have pizza for breakfast?"

I was grinding blue corn in a wood mortar when Mickey interrupted my scattered thoughts. She sat at the pine table, kicking her spindly legs. I glanced at her, puzzled.

"I don't think they deliver to reservations, hon."

"Why not?"

"Because they don't know where to find us."

"What are they, stupid?"

"That's not nice," I chided.

Mickey shrugged. She bent her head over a copy of Magic by the Lake. I hid a smile. Nice to see she liked Rafael's choice in books.

"Actually," I said.

Mickey raised her head.

"Native Americans invented pizza," I said matter-of-factly.

She gave me the weirdest of looks. "No you didn't," she said. "The Italians did."

"If you wanna be technical," Rafael said gruffly, trudging into the kitchen, "Marco Polo brought that stuff back from China. Where are my glasses?" he asked me.

"Where you left them, I'd imagine."

He showed me his disgust. He trudged back out of the room.

"Native Americans did not invent pizza," Mickey challenged.

"But they did," I said. "Hundreds of years ago, Indians started throwing crushed tomatoes and cheese on top of their frybread. And chili peppers. In Shoshone, we called it tottsaa."

Mickey's eyebrows drew together. I had no way of knowing what was going on in that adorable little head of hers. She nodded, finally, and closed her book.

"Make me tottsaa."

I pursed my lips. I set the blue corn mush aside with defeat.

"Get the powdered milk," I said.

We prepared the frybread together, the corn mush forgotten. Neither of us was particularly orderly about this task, but Mickey was the worst offender I'd ever seen: So much flour wound up in her hair that she looked like a ghost. The dough drizzled in the pan; the cheese melted on the burner. I steered Mickey outside the house and filled the wash tub next to the outhouse with water from the water pump. I dipped her head in, lathered my hands with soap, and started to wash her hair.

"It's so hot out today," she said when we sat beneath a patch of sunlight, her hair drying around her damp shoulders.

"It always gets worse around August," I said. "That's why Rafael built the cellar in the kitchen."

"How do you mean?"

"He sits in the cellar when he gets too hot."

Mickey giggled. "I wanna see that."

We returned to the kitchen, Mickey trailing water across the flour-strewn floor. I let her decorate the frybread as she wanted while I stowed the blue corn mush away in the icebox. I took out a separate ear of corn.

"I don't want that," Mickey said imperiously.

"You don't want popcorn?"

She changed her tune. "I can have popcorn for breakfast?"

"You're having pizza for breakfast. You might as well."

"Will I get fat?"

"I hope so."

We scraped the kernels from the cob and dropped them into the pot on the stove. Mickey shrieked with delight when they popped, crackled, and fluffed. She slammed the lid on the pot after a few stray kernels rocketed across the kitchen.

"Did Indians invent popcorn, too?" Mickey asked.

"We did. During the Great Depression, we got the idea that we would start selling it to non-Natives and make a little money. That's when it first became so popular."

"But was it always blue?"

"I doubt it."

"Okay," Rafael said. He trailed back into the room with his pager in his hands, squinting at the digital screen. He still hadn't found his glasses. "I'm gonna--"

Glasses or not, I guess he had noticed the mess that used to be our kitchen floor. "What the hell?" he asked.

"Pizza and popcorn," Mickey said.

Rafael's mouth dropped open. His head turned in my general direction. "Is that even healthy?"

"Very healthy, actually. Why don't you have some?"

He collected himself. "Can't," he said. "I've gotta go cut out a kid's tongue."

"Cool," Mickey said, with genuine appreciation.

I balked. I strode across the kitchen and took the pager from Rafael's hand. I read the scrolling message quickly--and resisted the urge to plash my forehead.

"Tonsils, Rafael," I said. "You're taking out a kid's tonsils."

"Oh."

"Go find your glasses," I said, returning the pager. "I beg you. The whole reservation begs you."

And he did, eventually; and the whole world rejoiced. Rafael left the both of us with kisses to our forehead; Mickey scrunched her face with disapproval. I took a look around the kitchen and recoiled. I really wasn't in the mood to clean up that debacle.

"Can I go to Charity's house?" Mickey asked, her mouth full of frybread. "Please?"

I deliberated. I hadn't at all forgotten about the last time Mickey played with Charity.

"Grandma Gives Light's gonna be there," Mickey said. "She's gonna show us how to make stuff with beads. Please?"

I smiled. Grandma Gives Light was the last person I'd expected to take an interest in the kids.

"Alright," I said. "You've been pretty good lately. I don't see why not."

"Yes!" Mickey cheered. "Thank you, thank you!"

"But if I find out you ran into the badlands--or started swinging from the roof eaves--or anything with the potential to harm you--"

"Sky..."

"--you'll never have popcorn again."

"Fine," Mickey grumbled. She must have really liked popcorn.

I spent the morning in the sitting room while I grappled with my least favorite pastime--reading.

In the US, if you want to get anything done legally, it's got to go through Congress first. If you don't have Congress on your side, you don't stand a chance.

I sat on the floor with a High Court case book and three different Senate rejection letters. Yeah. When I said the government doesn't care about Indian reservations, I wasn't joking.

"Mr. St. Clair?"

Carole must have let herself in. I hadn't heard the door open. She crept into the sitting room, her hair newly cut at chin-length.

I'd been living on the reservation so long that my first thought was to ask, What's wrong? Who died? It's still pretty jarring whenever I see short hair.

I smiled at Carole; I patted a spot on the throw rug. She sat with me, her legs folded, and bit her lip.

"I got the preliminary review," she said, her voice tiny. "So I knew it was going to look bad..."

"That's okay," I said. "I kind of expected that."

"But..."

"There's no money to make off of reservations. The government is a business at heart. Sad, but true."

Carole chewed on her lip. "Isn't there any way we could--go over their heads?" she asked.

"There is. It's called an Article V Convention."

"Oh, good!" Carole said, brightening, and brought her hands together. "Let's do it!"

"It's not that simple. The last time anyone held an Article V Convention, the year was 1787."

Carole wilted. "Oh..." But in the very same instance, she sat up straight, shoulders thrown back. "Well, how do we do one of those conventions, then? Um...an updated one?"

"We'd have to find lobbyists from thirty-four states willing to sign off on the same bill."

"But that should be easy, shouldn't it?" Carole said. "Sir? If you explained the problem, I'm sure you would find enough people who care about changing it."

I regarded her for a moment. In some ways I felt like I was looking at a child. How old was she? Twenty-four?

My mind wandered. Bad habit of mine. "Carole," I said. "I know the perfect man for you. His name's Jack Nabako. He's a little on the loud side..."

Carole sputtered. I cackled. I know, I know. I'm not very nice. I should probably do something to fix that.

Eventually Carole left me to my own devices, promising she would find me thirty-four legislative lawyers. I really appreciated her efforts, but I knew better than to get my hopes up. I read a few more chapters out of my case book--riveting stuff--and come midday, I decided I had better bring Mickey home for lunch.

I walked the dirt road across the reservation. Man, was it hot outside. My cotton shirt suddenly felt like layers of wool. I noticed the grackles strutting across the dry ground, their purple-black plumage glistening under an unbearable sun. You'd have to be a nutty bird to enjoy this weather.

Grandma Gives Light was sitting underneath her son's southern oak tree. She narrowed her eyes at me as I drew near.

"Tokochi'na kuhmachi, dosabitumu, yuhupukkanna..."

"You know I understand you," I told her, bewildered. "Right?"

She spread her mouth in a pitiless smile.

"Where's Michaela?" I asked.

Grandma Gives Light was spared from answering me when the little angel herself came storming out of Charity's house.

I couldn't understand it. Just this morning she had been chipper and agreeable. Now she looked like she could drive a nail through someone's head.

We sat by the brook during lunch and she remained sullen and sour; she refused to say a word. Only when Rafael came home did her mood seem to lessen. She handed him a chokecherry sandwich and he sat down and regaled us with the gory details of his tonsillectomy.

"Could you rip my tonsils out, too?" Mickey asked.

"Sure," Rafael said. I gave him a weird look. "Wasn't I gonna teach you how to draw?"

Her face clouded over with frustration. "Don't bother," she said. "I'll just mess it up. I mess everything up."

Rafael looked to me with bemusement.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

Mickey hesitated. She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a blob of blue beads.

"What's that?" Rafael asked.

Mickey grumbled in a roundabout, incoherent way. I could see we weren't going to have any luck getting to the bottom of her mystifying mood.

It was only later--much later, when I was cooking at Annie's house--that I realized the beaded blob had looked a little like a pilot whale.

"Skylar? Hello? Please come back to earth now. Your silence is not appreciated."

I eased out of my daydream and showed Annie a sheepish smile. I crushed the rosemary leaves and stirred them with honey. Baby Elizabeth peeped at me from her cradleboard, perched on her mother's back.

"They're beautiful, you know," I said, when Celia opened her mouth in a wide and impertinent yawn.

"Of course they are," Annie said. "They take after me, don't they?"

Annie sliced the butter while I spooned milk into the pot. Nicholas charged into the kitchen, yelling.

"Mom, Uncle Isaac won't let me drive the goddamn tractor!"

"Nicholas!" Annie said.

Nicholas ran from the room just as hastily as he had entered it. I think Annie was too shocked to call after him. She turned so that she was facing me, slowly.

"Where is he getting that from?" she asked. "We never curse in front of him. No, it must be Zeke's fault--"

"It's probably Mickey's," I said. "I'm really sorry."

"Oh, well, that's fine... I'll just have a talk with him later, I suppose..."

We rolled the dough into dumplings and dropped them into the pot on the stove. I watched little Leon through the window as he quacked at the ducks resting on the pond's warm waters.

"You know what?" Annie said. "We haven't been to the grotto in ages."

There's a rock cave out in the woods--southeast from the main path, not terribly easy to uncover unless you're purposely looking for it. Annie had discovered that grotto when she was about six or seven years old. In our teens, we'd made it into a kind of secret hideout. Annie and I used to spend hours out there with Aubrey, Zeke, and Rafael. I don't think our parents ever figured out what we were up to. And for the longest time, I'd assumed no one else on the reservation even knew about the place.

I thought about Uncle Julius falling from the willow tree.

I smiled quickly and slid the lid over the pot. "We should take the kids sometime," I said. "Before school starts up. I'm sure they'd like it."

"I can't believe it's almost time for school already," Annie remarked. "Never mind that; I can't believe Leon's starting first grade."

"Poor, poor Mr. Red Clay," I lamented, shaking my head.

"Skylar!"

"You were thinking it."

"That's completely beside the point!"

We sat together at the picnic table that night. Jessica joined us eventually with Stuart Stout, a member of the tribal council. Good luck ever cracking a smile out of Stuart's face. He always looks tired--and irritated.

"Hello, Stuart," I said. I felt like he had broken some kind of unspoken pact--a pact between ex-classmates: Never date your classmate's little sister. Especially if she's a decade younger than you, for crying out loud. Still, I felt the need to retain at least some modicum of civility. "How's everything going with Bear River?"

"More or less the same," Stuart said. His voice was hoarse; his hair was auburn, his eyes pale. "We're exporting water, that's the main thing. The Burnt Hope Reservation's natural reservoirs are completely contaminated; I suppose that's what happens when a uranium factory sets up shop next door. We've set up fifty acres in trust with the Lemhi--"

"Never mind," I said, and I walked off in search of DeShawn and Autumn Rose. "Sister stealer."

DeShawn and Dad were sitting beneath a pinyon pine with Autumn Rose In Winter, a very excitable young woman who squeaked and waved when she saw me approaching. Dad nodded almost imperceptibly, his back against the tree trunk.

"Skylar, we were just talking about the upcoming ghost dance," DeShawn said, adjusting his eyeglasses. "What do you think about using the tribal fund to bring some of the Paiute down here? After all, they're the ones who started the dance."

"I think that's a great idea," I said. I thought about our cousin Marilu, a Paiute woman. I hadn't seen her since winter. "What do you think, Dad?"

He didn't hear me. His eyes were fixed on the firepit, flames climbing and tumbling atop the piles of stone.

Shoshone used to practice self-immolation. Usually it was a scare tactic the warriors used when the Europeans started terrorizing Native families. The Shoshone were always a peace-loving, noncombatant tribe; that we came up with counting coup pretty much proves my point. So maybe you can see why we preferred killing ourselves to killing our enemies.

I can't tell you what was going through my mind when I looked between Dad and the burning firepit. I can't tell you how I made the connection. All I know is that my heart suddenly seized, and my blood froze over in my veins; and I excused myself politely while I went looking for Racine.

I found her sitting with Rosa on a couple of folding chairs while they listened to baseball scores on a portable radio.

"You need to keep an eye on Dad," I said, before I could stop myself; before I could apologize.

Racine looked up at me, her empathetic brown eyes unusually guarded. I knew, suddenly, that she was already aware of the problem.

I was in a bad way after dinner, and I think Rafael noticed. I was quiet on the walk home--although really, quiet was familiar; quiet was comforting--and when Mickey went upstairs to bed, I almost forgot to say good night.

I sat on the sofa in the sitting room. Rafael lit the hearth and sat next to me.

He put his arm around me. He drew me close to him, his hand stroking idle patterns against my hip. I love that about him. I love everything about him--but I love that we don't need to talk to know what the other is thinking.

I laughed, mentally exhausted. I remembered a time when my laughs were soundless. "When did we grow up, Rafael?"

"We grew up?" Rafael murmured.

"Apparently."

"I don't remember that."

"I know. It's bizarre."

I rested my head on his shoulder and he carded his fingers through my hair. I wish I could put into words how good that felt. Sometimes I just wanted to meld into him and forget about the part of me that wasn't a part of him. God, it felt good to be a part of him. It felt like everything made sense for a moment, even the harshness of life, even the insanity. It felt like my heart had found its second heartbeat. Everyone has a second heartbeat, you know. Ask any Shoshone. They say that the living earth has a pulse of its own, and if you listen very closely, you can hear it echoing in your heart. But I say: Well, I have no room for the earth's pulse. I'd rather have Rafael's.

I pulled back. I tugged on one of Rafael's braids.

"What?" he asked.

"When's the last time I thanked you?"

His eyebrows furrowed. "You don't have to thank me for anything."

"No, I mean...when's the last time I thanked you?"

"Oh," he said. I saw the dawning in his eyes. "Oh," he said again. He looked over his shoulder toward the staircase. Was Mickey asleep yet? Was it likely she was going to need us in the middle of the night? I knew exactly what was going through his head. I'd had a great many years to acquaint myself with that beautiful repository of nonsense. He looked at me once more--but his mind was already made up for him. He's long since accepted that I do the thinking for the both of us. "I don't remember," he said. "You should thank me now."

"Upstairs," I said. "I'll thank you upstairs."

"Yeah. Bad etiquette to go around thanking people in the living room..."

"You ought to know. Do you remember that time Racine was staying over, and she walked in on you thanking me in the kitchen?"

"Remember it? You're kidding, right? I still can't look her in the eye..."

9

Ten Minutes

August in Nettlebush is a month of remembrance. August is when we celebrate the ghost dance.

If you've never heard of the ghost dance, it's a ritual that started with the Paiute tribe, but spread all throughout the Plains in the 1800s. A lot of different intentions went into the creation of the ghost dance. To begin with, the Paiute still believe that Jesus is going to be reincarnated as a Native American. Ghost dancing is their way of saying: "We're waiting, pal." But for the rest of us, the ghost dance is how the souls of the living reconnect with the souls of the dead.

I headed out to the radio station early Monday morning. And I thought about my mother.

Sometimes she creeps up on me when I least expect it, and then I have to stop whatever I'm doing, paralyzed with loss, with disbelief, and take in the fact that she's been dead for twenty-eight years. It still feels like it was only yesterday when I walked into her room, lured by muffled cries, and found her lying still on her bed, her throat torn open. And the hulking shadow next to her bed... The shadow that rushed at me, knife glinting in its hand...

I was halfway around the lake when I came to a sudden stop. I'd grown skilled over the years at removing my mother from my memory. I'd also grown skilled at removing her killer. But I could see him now, clear as day, as though he were standing right in front of me. I could see his long black hair and his acrid black eyes. I could see the square shape of his jaw, the short bridge of his nose. His face was burned into the backs of my eyes. His face was Rafael's face.

Just like that, I couldn't breathe. I hate that about memories. You can work your hardest to cull them and toss them away, but they'll always come back. One day you're doing something as simple as taking a walk around the lake and the past grips your shoulders in cold, clammy hands. And it doesn't let go.

Rafael is not his father, I thought. I hated that I still needed to remind myself. Rafael is not his father, and you are not your mother, and nobody is going to cut your throat again.

I thought about Rafael's eyes, deep blue, expressive. I thought about how much kindness I'd seen in those eyes over the years. I thought about his father's eyes like infected blood, like gaping, infected wounds. Different eyes. Different men. I started to relax.

"Hello, Skylar."

Morgan Stout came shuffling over to my side. He was Stuart's younger brother--meaning I was morally obligated to hate him--but I couldn't find it in my heart to give him the cold shoulder. Really, with his soft demeanor and his soulful, solemn eyes, the guy's like an overgrown kid. I wish Jessica were dating him instead.

We walked together into the little studio beneath the latticed iron tower. Musicians in Nettlebush always contribute to the airwaves. More music means more revenue. Sarah Two Eagles waved distractedly at us, then pointed at the soundproof glass. I looked grimly through the window. Mary and a few of her weird hard rock stoner friends were already using the recording room.

"Oh," Morgan said glumly. "They'll be there for hours."

"Are you going to play for the ghost dance, Morgan?" I asked.

I thought about my mother again, her freckled arms and her rabbit-like underbite.

"I think so," he said. "We could both play. Siobhan's coming home, that should be nice..."

"You must miss her."

"Yeah. It's lonely."

We sat on the grass together and waved at DeShawn and Joseph, their fishing boat out on the lake. Fortunately we didn't have long to wait. Mary and her odd friends tromped out of the recording studio. The air suddenly smelled like pot.

"Oh..." Morgan said.

We hurried into the sound studio, the air thick and unpleasant. Morgan kept coughing--not a good sign for a flautist--and we hastened through our repertoire of Plains music. I cheated and played a few Arapaho songs. It's not like non-Natives know the difference, anyway. We shook hands a few hours later and Morgan headed out to the badlands to meet up with Lila on the hunt.

I was still thinking about Mom on my walk home. What would it have been like if she were still alive? I'm sure she and Dad still would have divorced--but would she live on the reservation with us? What would she think of Rafael? Of Mickey?

The truth is that I don't know my mother. I was five when she died. I don't know whether she would have liked Rafael, or even whether she would have liked me. Shoshone don't even bat an eye at same-sex couples; they see it as nature, as harmless. It's been a recognized part of their culture for thousands of years. Mom wasn't Shoshone. She was Finnish. I don't know what her beliefs looked like. I don't even know what her favorite color was.

I stepped inside the house. The first thing I noticed was the scent of burnt popcorn. I followed it into the kitchen where my fears were confirmed.

"It didn't come out right," Mickey said, and held up a messy bowl of scorched blue kernels.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rafael said. "It tastes fine to me."

I made them hotbread and wojapi for lunch, wondering, as I'd always wondered, about the garbage disposal Rafael called a stomach. Mickey sat scribbling on a sheet of paper at the pine table, a crayon clutched in her hand. She showed me her work when I handed her a plate.

"Rafael's teaching me how to draw," she said.

It was a face. Or I thought it was a face. The features were kind of squashed and disproportionate, but for a kid's first chickenscratch, it looked pretty good.

"You recognize that face?" Rafael asked boorishly.

I took a second look at the drawing. A long brown ponytail and dark green eyes. A strong chin. I'd seen a face like that before. I just didn't know where.

"It's nobody!" Mickey insisted, balling up the paper with agitated haste.

I locked eyes with Rafael. I raised my eyebrows. A nobody who looked an awful lot like Henry Siomme.

After lunch I composed a quick e-mail to Carole Svensen; and then I headed east to the lake again. With Mom so fresh on my mind lately, the last thing I wanted was to lose contact with the parent I still had left.

I found Dad sitting on the lakeshore, unkempt grass rising to his knees. His fishing rod was cast into the shallow water--but whether or not he'd had any bites, I don't think he noticed. His eyes looked like frozen winter water. I thought of Bear River in winter with a shudder.

"Hi, Dad," I said, and sat at his side.

"Don't worry," he muttered. "I'll let them go once I've caught them."

His fishing line didn't move.

"Ghost dance is coming up," I said, grasping for a conversation starter.

"I'm aware of that."

"Marilu might be coming to Nettlebush for it. It'll be nice to see her again, won't it?"

"You'll have to let me know."

I watched his face carefully. I've always thought he looks statuesque. If you've ever gone to a museum--against your will--you'll know what I mean. You can look at those sculptures as long as you like, but they can't look back. They can't interact with you. I guess it would be creepy if they did. But how do you grow up with a father like that? A father you can mull over, but never interact with? This is the same father who waited until I was seventeen to tell me we weren't related. I'm pretty sure he only confessed because I figured it out first. How do you help a man who won't let you help him?

"I'm very old, Cubby," Dad said.

"You're not old," I said, surprised. "You're fifty-six."

"I know." He paused. "I've never felt so old."

In many ways, I suppose Dad really had lived a long life. He'd had enough heartache and hardship to fill four different men's shoes. And the things he'd done... Most of the people never do half of the things he's done.

Have you ever noticed the way air refracts when it's really hot out? How wavy it gets? It's weird, isn't it?

The air above the lake looked like settling mist, hazy and heated beneath an unforgiving sun. It had the effect of making the water look like a mirror, glimmering and gray and polished like the surface of a diamond. I felt like I was sitting inside a children's storybook. Any moment now the sun would come crawling down to the earth; the trees would start whispering in the wind. Why were the clouds so gray if it wasn't going to rain? Why was the air so dry?

"Tell me about prison," I said.

Dad raised his head as though hearing me for the first time.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I want to know." Because you never talk to me, I thought. Not if you can help it. Because you need to talk to me, or you're going to spiral into madness. "So tell me."

If I thought he was going to respond right away--I was wrong. He took a moment, probably to gather his thoughts.

He started to talk.

"It was miserable," Dad said, in a horrifically detached way that made me think he was talking about somebody else entirely. "Grown men regressing to children...to animals..."

I wanted to put my hand on his back, but I was afraid he wouldn't appreciate that.

"You stop existing as an individual. You either belong to the pack of animals or the helpless children. The days blend together. Blending, and blurring... You can't remember what happened yesterday. The day before that. You're always on the lookout."

"The lookout?" I asked.

"For the ones who behave like animals. They'll kill you. They don't need a reason. They don't care about the consequences. They're already in prison. They've got nothing to lose."

"Dad," I said, my head spinning, my heart sick. "I'm so sorry..."

"I didn't tell you because I wanted you to be sorry. I told you because you asked me."

I couldn't imagine living that way--like an animal on the run. Nobody ought to live that way, I thought. No matter what they'd done.

And then Dad said the most shocking thing of all.

"Now I know how Eli felt."

Eli was Rafael's father.

"What do you...?" I started, but couldn't finish.

"I chased him for over a decade," Dad said. "He was looking over his shoulder all that time. He couldn't stop running. The moment he stopped, he died. That's no way to live."

I realized, astonished, that Dad felt sorry for Rafael's father. He still thought of him as his best friend.

"When I caught up with Eli," Dad said--and I wished he would stop. I wished I hadn't forced him into this. I didn't want to hear what he was about to say. At the same time, I wanted to help him. "He wasn't remotely surprised. I broke into his apartment...tied him to a chair... Old trick your grandfather showed me, the slipknot. The harder you pull on it, the tighter it binds you..."

Oh, God, I didn't want to hear this.

"We talked. ...It was like time hadn't even elapsed. He asked about Susan, about Rafael and Mary. Didn't seem to care when he found out Susan had died... But then he asked about you, and--and I snapped."

Appreciated or not, I found his shoulder and gripped it--hard.

"Do you know how long it takes to die of asphyxiation?" Dad asked mildly.

I shook my head without meeting his eyes.

"Ten minutes," he said. "It takes ten minutes to choke to death. I wrapped that cord around his throat--nylon, I picked it up from the hardware store along the way--and I pulled. And he choked. Ten minutes. For ten minutes I held that cord taut, and he stared at me, and I stared back--and I couldn't look away. Do you know he started to bleed? That's how tight I was pulling the cord... It seemed appropriate to me, somehow. To cut his throat. So appropriate. Ten minutes. Ten minutes, and he never once looked away. And I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I knew what he was thinking. I've always known. 'How could you do this to me? Weren't we friends?' ...But my son..."

I realized then that killing Eli had been a double-edged sword. Dad had gotten the revenge the Shoshone people needed--and he'd saved probably countless women in the process--but he'd also lost a friend. This man who had suffered loss for all of his life.

When is loss too much? When you're tallying the losses--when you're adding them up, nice and neat, just another for the books--at what point do you start to break? How much loss is too much loss?

I can't answer for everyone. It would be pretty miraculous if I could. I only know what I think. What I think is this:

Even one loss is too much loss.

"Dad," I said. "It's over now. You don't have to lose anyone else."

He bowed his head--that gesture so universal among all Shoshone--but then he raised it. He looked up at me, and I realized, mortified, that his eyes were shining with tears.

He had never shown me his tears before.

"How do you know?" Dad asked, his voice faltering and weak. "How do you know something else won't happen? It only takes one instant. One accident. Any one of you could die between today and tomorrow. A madman runs onto the reserve with a gun. What then?"

"DeShawn stops him," I supplied, thinking about the reservation police.

"Or DeShawn is shot to death. What about health complications? Jessica's heart suddenly stops beating. There doesn't have to be a reason. The human body's funny, in that regard. Or you. What about you? You've had cancer twice now. What if it comes back?"

Instinctually, I rubbed my upper arm. "I've been in remission for eleven years, Dad," I said. "Once it's past five years..."

"That's a guideline. Medicine doesn't always follow guidelines." He paused. "What about Racine? She used to be a police officer. She's made a lot of arrests. A lot of enemies. It only takes one belligerent girlfriend with a grudge. And we're getting old, she and I. What if she dies in her sleep? What if--"

I knew what he was about to say before he even said it.

"What if she leaves me?"

"She's not going to leave you," I said. My hand was on his forearm; my gaze was intent. Not that he was even looking at me. "She loves you. She married you when you were serving a life sentence, Dad. If that's not love, what is?"

"You just said it," Dad replied. "We thought I was going to be in prison for years. Marrying her was a very bright spot on an otherwise dark canvas. She--"

I couldn't believe this. He thought she married him for pity.

"Dad," I said. My heart was breaking. "Dad, why didn't you tell me? That this is who you really are? I never knew you hated yourself this much. All these years..."

It felt like I was meeting him for the very first time.

We sat in silence, the two of us. The sun didn't come crawling down from the sky. The trees didn't start whispering in the wind. This wasn't a child's storybook.

"I'm so tired," Dad finally said. He laughed. It was the laugh of a man faced with the most absurd of quandaries. What do I do now? That kind of laugh.

"Do you know something?" I said quietly.

He looked at me.

"You're right," I said. "I can't guarantee that any of us will still be here from one day to the next. A rattlesnake could bite Rafael while he's out hunting in the badlands. Michaela could be playing with Charity one day when she falls into the brook and breaks her neck on the rocks. Or," I said, my knees raised, my hands resting on my knees. The lake was a mirror, gray and bright. "My cancer could come back. Maybe it spreads to my stomach this time. Maybe they can't operate."

I didn't think Dad wanted to hear any of this. I didn't blame him.

"If we can die at any minute," I said, "why are you wasting your life dreading it? Why don't you just live while you have the chance?"

When I looked at him, his eyes were on the distant radio tower. I couldn't tell what was going through his mind.

And maybe that's okay. Maybe it didn't matter whether I knew what was going through his mind. Maybe all that mattered was that I kept trying to understand him.

"Dad?" I said.

"Yes?"

"I love you. Do you know that?"

He didn't respond. Not immediately.

"Yes," he said. "I've always known that."

I think, in some ways, it was all he really needed to know.

10

Sleepwalker

The line outside the ballpark was long and dense. DeShawn tapped on my shoulder and I spun around.

"Where'd you get the tickets?" he asked, a baseball cap on his head. Whether he was showing his support or just aggravated with the sun, I couldn't tell. "Aren't they expensive?"

"It's minor league," I said. "They're never expensive."

He wasn't to be deterred. There's nothing my punctilious brother loves more than numbers. "Well, if you'll give me the full cost," he said, "I'll add it to the books, and we can recover the funds during crafts month--"

"You hear that, Shawny?" Jessica said behind him.

"Hear what?"

"The sound of my brain melting? It sounds a little like... 'Shut up... Shut up...' "

"Noted," DeShawn said with a frown.

Just ahead of me, Mickey tugged on Rafael's arm. He bent his head to listen to her.

"What's a dugout?" Mickey asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Rafael retorted.

For the tenth time this afternoon, I rolled my eyes. Rafael had a notebook and two novels tucked under his arm. I'd argued with him all during the car ride into the city.

"How can you bring a book to a baseball game?" I said again.

"S'easy, if you've got hands," he returned sourly.

"A dugout is where the players sit," Dad said to Mickey. "And the coaches. I'll show it to you when we're inside."

At long last, the line started to move. A good thing, too. The sun was giving me a vicious headache.

"What do you mean, my damn purse is too big?" Racine burst out at the front of the line.

"Ma'am," I heard the security guard say.

"If you think you're looking through my personal stuff, you've got another thing coming. Do you know who you're talking to?" Either I was blushing or I was sunburnt; I couldn't tell which. "A retired police officer, that's who. Move aside."

"Ma'am--" said the security guard.

"Sweetheart--" said Dad.

"You go, Mom!" Jessica said cheerfully.

The crowd was chaos. Men and women kept stepping in and out of line, intermittently blocking my view. I couldn't really tell what was going on. All I knew was that I couldn't hear Racine anymore, and suddenly the line was moving again, and I figured maybe Racine had flashed her badge at the security personnel. She does that, sometimes, when she wants to cut corners. Or lines. Or avoid parking tickets. I'm not entirely sure it's legal.

"Cool!" Mickey breathed, once we had stepped into the stadium.

It was reminiscence of the most welcome kind. I gazed around at the fresh-cut grass, at the blinking scoreboard and the climbing grandstand. Dad and I used to spend countless summers in this baseball stadium. Those summers felt like an eternity ago. Dad wasn't a killer back then; and I didn't even know my own grandmother.

I stole a look at Dad. For the most part I was trying to discern whether he'd be alright with this crowd. The noise was deafening, the throng bordering on unnavigable.

But Dad looked fine to me. His face was lined with age--when did that happen? where did those empty years go?--his mouth was impassive; his eyes were relaxed. His hands weren't shaking.

Maybe, I thought, I should have taken him to the ballpark sooner.

Jessica took the lead when we climbed the grandstand. I didn't trust anyone else with the tickets. She found our seats rows up from the diamond--not a bad spot at all--and we slithered down the bleachers after her.

Mickey turned her baseball cap backwards. She held her hand above her eyes and squinted at the field below.

"I see the dugout," she reported proudly. I wanted to squeeze her. "Who are the good guys?" she asked, and turned to face my dad.

"The Paldones Bandits, of course. They're in orange. I don't know much about the Swingers--terribly unfortunate name--"

"Why is it unfortunate?" Mickey asked.

"I'll tell you when you're older," I cut in.

We each of us scrambled around, bickering and trading our seats. I wound up between Rafael and Mickey, Dad on Mickey's other side, Racine on Dad's. Racine pulled a giant pair of binoculars out of her equally gigantic purse and tossed them to DeShawn. I stared dubiously.

"Biggest nerd on the planet," I heard Jessica say, somewhere to Rafael's left.

"I wear that distinction proudly," DeShawn said. But he sounded pretty sullen to me.

Rafael sat hunched over an open book, an unfriendly expression on his dark face. I elbowed him. He narrowed his eyes at me shrewdly. I rolled mine in return.

"Move your head, fatty!" said someone behind us.

Only when I looked over my shoulder did I realize the guy was talking to me. My mouth fell open. I shifted closer to Rafael.

"When did I become fat?" I needed to know.

Rafael grinned. "You're not that fat."

"Then how fat am I?" Was I starting to panic? No way. I never panic. "Rafael--"

"Pleasantly plump," Jessica's voice rang out. "Like the Pillsbury Doughboy."

My ego deflated considerably.

"Actually," Jessica went on, "what happens if I poke you in the tummy?"

"Don't," Rafael said, disgruntled. "I'm the only one who does that."

"Oh, ew. Sorry, didn't know it was a bedroom thing."

"Jessica--" I started. I must have been really sunburnt.

I could hear Dad humming My Country, 'Tis of Thee on Mickey's other side.

"Okay, dummy," Mickey said to Rafael, leaning across my lap. "Close the book. I'm gonna teach you baseball."

"Could you teach me, too?" DeShawn said.

"No."

I don't think he knew what to say to that. Hell, I didn't know what to say to that.

"Alright," Rafael said, none too enthusiastically. "Who's the guy in the mask?"

"That's the umpire," Mickey said.

"Which team does he play for?"

Mickey threw me a look--an Is this guy for real? look.

"Neither," I filled in. "He calls the shots."

"So...what, there's a third team?"

"Has he always been this stupid?" Mickey asked me.

"Watch it," Rafael growled.

"Yes," Jessica said at the same time.

"Quiet," DeShawn said, and peeped through his binoculars like a batty owl.

Dad's team was at bat. The pitcher made his move. The batter missed. The umpire blew his whistle.

"What the hell!" Racine yelled, and leapt out of her seat.

Dad did the same. "That was a ball!" he bellowed. Baseball is the only time when Dad, usually so meek and mild, turns into a raging maniac.

"Of course it was a ball," Rafael grunted on my left. "I thought that was the point."

"A 'ball' means it was an unfair throw," I said. "Outside of the batter's range."

"What the hell? Then why don't they just call it an unfair throw?"

"Will you two Marys shut up?" said the guy behind me.

An expression of fury flared across Rafael's face. I didn't need to be told how offended he was.

"Nobody compares me to my sister," Rafael said, his teeth ground together.

I grabbed his arm before he could incite a fistfight. He struggled against me. Jessica and DeShawn threw themselves on top of his other arm. We only just managed to hold him down.

"Peanuts!" Racine shouted.

I'd thought it would be nice to take my family out for the day. You know--something everyone could enjoy. Especially Dad. Dad had spent the past fifteen years staring at prison bars. A baseball field ought to be a nice change. Right?

Rafael opened his notebook and freed a pencil from behind his ear. DeShawn trained his binoculars on the lights at the top of the stadium. Jessica swiveled in her seat and struck up a conversation with the girl behind her. Apparently they'd gone to college together.

"Lame," Mickey remarked.

"Definitely," I agreed.

It was standard fare for a minor league game. The Bandits lost inning after inning--losing is their specialty--and the crowd, bored with the tedium, started up a couple rounds of The Wave. Mickey crunched her peanut shells in her hands and yelled obscenities at the Los Portales Swingers. I probably should have stopped her, but it was funny.

"Look," Rafael said, and showed me his sketch, a bashful grin playing around his mouth.

"Oh, nice," I said, and made sure to hide the notebook from Mickey's view. "You drew me like one of your French girls."

A loud "crack" resounded through the stadium when one of the Bandits finally managed to hit a run. Dad and Racine jumped to their feet. I couldn't tell you which of the two was louder.

"This doesn't make any damn sense," Rafael complained.

"It's a game of outs," I said. "Three strikes and the batter's out. Three outs and the inning's over."

"So...what? Are they out?"

"No, quite the opposite."

"Then why's that guy running around like a raving lunatic?"

"That's how they score points, Rafael."

The guy behind us lost his head again. "If you two fags don't shut your yammers--"

It happened in an instant. Rafael threw down his notebook and jumped out of his seat. DeShawn said, "Now, sir--!" diplomatic in his indignation.

It was Michaela who lunged off the bleacher and jumped on the offender's knees.

I was so shocked, I couldn't even react. Mickey threw her arms around the gentleman's neck and squeezed. The gentleman started shouting. His complaints, alas, were lost under a cacophonous cry of jubilation from the audience: The Bandits had hit a home run. The gentleman stood up and thrashed. Mickey clung to his neck with all her might. At one point, I think she bit into his arm. Truly it was a sight to behold.

An usher came running up the grandstand to the group of us. Uh-oh, I thought. I scooped Mickey into my arms before the usher could beat me to it. I sat down and collected her on my lap. I stroked the crown of her head--poor baby must have been traumatized--and shot the usher a sycophantic look. He relented.

"Oh, come on!" shouted the gentleman behind us. His protests fell on deaf ears; the usher showed us his back. "Somebody put a leash on the brat!"

"Just so you know," said Mickey, sneering at him, "you taste like shit. And you talk shit, too. Shithead."

DeShawn started to hyperventilate. He felt his pockets in search of his inhaler.

The game lasted another half hour, after which the seven of us filtered out into the parking lot. Jessica giggled--well-meaning, I'm sure--and DeShawn kept sneaking looks over his shoulder, no doubt keeping an eye out for our new friend.

"Sweetheart," I said to Mickey, and tried to keep a straight face. "That was very nice of you, but you can't go around attacking people."

"Why not?"

"Of course you can go around attacking people," Racine said. "Want to borrow my badge?"

"Racine," I said.

We climbed into June Threefold's borrowed SUV. Mickey was oddly silent when she wedged her way between Rafael and me.

"If I'm bad," she said, "will I have to go to a different home?"

"Why do you ask?" I said, taken aback.

"The last time I got into a fight, and I got a black eye, the social worker took me out of the Delsons' home."

"Well, we're not going to let you get a black eye," I assured her.

"But will a social worker take me away? If I get in a fight?"

I looked at Rafael.

"Maybe," he mumbled. "If he found out."

"Oh, be realistic," said Jessica from the driver's seat. "Zeke's never gonna say a bad word about you guys."

"That still doesn't mean she should put her hands around people's throats," DeShawn murmured.

"Why?" Jessica asked. "Are you worried you're next?"

"Now that you mention it--"

Mickey's silent spell lasted for the ride back to Nettlebush. We were coming off the turnpike when Dad tried to engage her.

"Why don't we play baseball together sometime?"

I tried to decipher the tone of his voice. I couldn't.

"I like shinny better," Mickey said.

"Shinny it is. You know, there's a tournament in February."

"Can I play on your team?" Mickey asked.

Without discussing it, we'd all assumed she would still be with us come winter.

"I'd really like that," Dad said, a weak smile fluttering to his face.

Jessica parked outside the reservation hospital. I noticed Aubrey sitting on the wheelchair ramp with his twins in his arms. Immediately I started to worry.

"Hey," Racine said to Mickey. "Wanna help me set up for the ghost dance?"

"What's that?"

"You come with me and you'll find out."

Just like that, the two of them left for the badlands, Racine's hand on the small of Mickey's back.

"Grandma," Jessica mocked with a soft giggle. "You boys have fun. I promised Prairie Rose I'd do the cleaning."

Dad and DeShawn stayed behind to talk about today's game. I nudged Rafael and nodded toward the hospital ramp.

He set his books down on the hood of the car. We walked up the ramp together until our shadows fell across Aubrey's face.

"Oh! Hello!" Aubrey sputtered, as warm and as kind as could be. He stood up, a baby in each arm. "Sorry, am I blocking you?"

"Are the girls alright?" I asked, concerned.

"Quite alright, quite alright. Little Lizzie just had a small case of the croup, but I panicked, figured I'd bring the both of them here--you know, if one has it, maybe the other does...I still don't know how twins work and I've been living with Holly and Daisy for years... Really, I can't calm down--what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you," Rafael said. "You've always been like that."

"Ahhh..."

We walked Aubrey back to his house, where Annie received him with a stern scolding.

"I told you there was no reason to panic," she said, and took the twins from his arms. "Would you go help Daisy out back? She can't do everything on her own. Oh, Skylar, Rafael--"

I grimaced. Here it comes, I thought.

"--since you're here, could you clean up the milkshed for me? That would be lovely."

"Want us to pasteurize the milk while we're at it?" Rafael said bitingly.

"Actually, yes," Annie said. "Thank you. Move along, then."

I shot Rafael an indignant look and we went on our way.

The milkshed stood alongside the toolshed, just to the east of the farm manor. It was dark and ridiculously chilly when we went inside. I pulled the drawstring on the low-watt lightbulb and looked around disapprovingly at the mess. Brushes and spare buckets lay on their sides in the middle of the concrete floor. Pails full of milk lay with them The cows peered cluelessly at us from their stables.

"The hell?" Rafael said. "Did Isaac just forget they were standing here?"

"This is your fault," I said lightly.

"Shut up, Sky. I'm gonna get 'em out into the pasture."

I threw open the side doors for him and he opened the stables. Getting a cow to follow you is actually pretty easy; all you have to do is talk to her in a nice, friendly voice and start walking. Cows are the most curious creatures on the planet. They're the ditziest, too, because they'd rather walk in circles than a straight line. I couldn't stop laughing when Rafael started herding them:

"Okay, come on," he said, struggling to sound as friendly as possible. It was like something out of the Twilight Zone. "I know you wanna go out in the nice sun, right? S'too dark in here--where the hell are you going, that's the wall--I mean heck, sorry, I mean heck--stop headbutting me--"

I shook my head and smiled. I stacked the brushes on their shelves and the buckets in their nook. I ran the faucet in the corner and found the mop hanging on the wall--oddly stringy, like it hadn't seen use in years. I wet the mop and cleaned the mess on the floor.

Rafael was frazzled and sweaty when he trudged back into the milkshed. "The bull calves are going crazy out there," he grunted. "Why is the floor wet?"

"That's how you wash it, Rafael."

He grunted again. He opened a paper sack next to the east-facing door and sprinkled sawdust on the floor. I picked up the heavy milk pails--careful not to spill their contents--and carried them to the low stove on the opposite wall.

I don't know why they call it "pasteurizing." All you're really doing is heating the milk--just slightly--to kill the bacteria. After that you chill it again.

I sloshed the milk into a pot on the stove. I lit the burner on low heat.

"He reminded me of my dad," Rafael mumbled.

I looked at him with consternation.

"Aubrey," he clarified. "When he was holding the babies like that. One in each arm. There used to be a photograph on my uncle's mantel." He drew off momentarily. "With my dad holding Mary and me like that, back when we were babies."

"What happened to it?" I asked softly.

"Mary smashed it years ago."

I reached sideways and squeezed his shoulder. His hand rested on top of mine. His hand was rough and dark, his fingers short and square. Mine was soft and pale and freckled, my fingers long. On the outside we were nothing alike. On the inside...

"You look a lot like your mom," Rafael said quietly.

I smiled at him with regret. "You look a lot like your dad."

I found his gaze and held it. He asked for you, you know, I wanted to say. Rafael's father had asked for him seconds before he'd died. No matter what else he had done wrong, he had cared for his son.

I didn't know that I could hate him. All the lives he had taken--the tangible trail of agony and turmoil he had left in his wake--I couldn't hate him for that. Because he had loved his son. He had loved the person I loved more than anything on earth.

I couldn't hate the man who had loved Rafael.

I watched his eyes behind his glasses when they dropped from my eyes to my throat. He knew what I was thinking about. I didn't need to tell him; he just knew it, the way a tree knows when its roots aren't strong, the way a hummingbird knows it will die if it stops flying. And maybe, over the years, some of his crazy mind-reading prowess had rubbed off on me; because I knew what he was thinking, too.

He tucked my curls behind my ear. He touched his fingertips to the scars on my throat.

Long ago he'd told me how conflicted he felt about his father. How he loved him; how he hated him. How he could never forgive him.

"Not after what he did to you," Rafael said.

I smiled at him. I was sorry for him, in one way. In another, I was touched.

"I'm glad I met you, Rafael."

"Say my name again," he said.

If I weren't already smiling, I would have smiled all over again. "Rafael."

It was a milkshed, for crying out loud. It was hardly the most appropriate place to start--you know--"thanking" each other. But there he was: The best thing I'd ever seen. And it didn't matter that his hair looked like he'd brushed it with a cow's tongue. It didn't matter that he was slick with perspiration and he smelled like fresh grass and stale hay. What did matter was that his arms locked around me; his arms felt familiar around me. His chest felt familiar against mine through the fabric of his damp shirt. My second heartbeat.

And his mouth on mine, open and hot, was second nature. Sometimes it was the only thing that made sense.

We took the milk off the stove and left it out to chill. We went back inside the house in search of Annie. Serafine was sweeping up the dust and dirt in the foyer. She nodded over her shoulder, in the direction of the back patio.

Annie and Aubrey were on the wood-paneled patio, Celia and Elizabeth sound asleep in a shaded twin bassinet. Mother and father were engaged in a very animated discussion the likes of which I couldn't hope to determine. I noticed Zeke was with them, too. He looked up; he spat out a mouthful of chilled rose tea.

"Hahaha! Hey!" he said, pink spit dribbling down the front of his shirt. "I was looking for you two losers!"

"You might have tried their house first," Annie pointed out.

"What are you talking about? They're here, aren't they? So I did something right. What was I saying?"

"Please don't wake them?" Aubrey begged, wincing, glancing at the twins. "We had such a long night..."

"Aubrey, I just remembered," I said. "If croup is all it was, I could have given you some bloodroot. I've still got some, I think."

"Oh, could you give it to me at dinnertime? That would be terrific, thank you."

"We did your stupid milk thing," Rafael told Annie.

"Good. I'll remember it the next time you need a favor."

"Why would I ask you for a favor? It's not like I need a duck gutted or something."

"Why, you--!"

"Why isn't anybody paying attention to me?!" Zeke demanded.

"Aagh!" Aubrey cried. "No! You woke Celia! Why would you do that?" He scurried over to the bassinet.

"What is it, Zeke?" I asked temperately.

"About Michaela," he said impatiently. "Do you guys wanna adopt her, or not? Because if you decide you wanna go through with it, I've got to write up a homestudy first. So you have to let me know."

Rafael's fingers bit into my arm. I knew immediately there was no answer for him but a definitive yes.

"Can we talk about it first?" I asked. "With Michaela?"

Rafael looked sideways at me. "How do you mean?"

"We have to make sure she's comfortable. We're little more than strangers to her right now."

I knew how much Rafael wanted her. I wanted her, too. But it was Rafael who had first said that adoption should be about the child's needs.

"Yeah," Rafael said, slouching. "We'll let you know."

We went home a few hours before sunset. It wasn't long before Racine dropped Mickey off on our doorstep. Mickey was singing Ring of Fire, for whatever reason. Rafael and I traded quick looks.

"Can I have ice cream?" Mickey asked.

"Not before dinner," I said.

"Okay," she said. "Racine is so cool. She said she'd show me how to shoot a rifle after the ghost dance."

I didn't quite catch what Rafael said in response, but it sounded something like, "Oh God."

"We'll see," I said. "Did you read that book Mr. Red Clay gave you for the summer?"

Mickey raised an eyebrow at me. "You mean Mr. Siomme."

"Right, that."

"I read it. It wasn't as good as Charlotte Doyle. Do you know how to make potato chips?"

"No, I don't," I said. "Sorry, honey."

"Mary does," Rafael said. "We could ask her."

"Cool."

"Oh, you know something?" Rafael went on. "She built a carburetor once. I've gotta show it to you."

"What's a carburetor?"

"Part of an engine, or something like that. She's good with car stuff."

I sat on the armchair in the sitting room. I cleared my throat.

"What?" Rafael and Mickey said at the same time, each as testy as the other.

I gave Rafael a pointed look. I thought it was the right time to bring up the adoption. I looked from Rafael to Mickey. Suddenly I wasn't so sure. It's not that I didn't want her--far from it--but in truth, we'd only had her for a few months. Discussing something so permanent, and so soon... I don't know. Maybe it would have made her uncomfortable.

"Do you know what the ghost dance is for?" I asked.

Mickey shook her head.

"It's a dance that lets the dead come back to us," I said. "Just one night every year."

"Oh." Mickey's eyebrows knitted together. She curled up on the throw rug on the floor.

"Well," Mickey finally said, "it sounds like bullshit."

"It's not bullshit," Rafael said. "If you believe in it, that makes it real."

"Like when you wish upon a star?" Mickey asked.

Rafael's familiar, muted smile made its way to his face. "Yeah," he said. "Like that."

"I miss my cat," Mickey said. "The one Mom choked when she got mad at me."

My stomach turned. Of all the cruel ways to punish a child...

"Well," I said, "that's why you should go to the ghost dance. You'll get to be with your friend again."

"In spirit, you mean," Mickey said.

"You're very smart."

Mickey screwed up her face in concentration. "Wait," she said, "aren't you going to do music for that thing?"

"Me?" I asked. "I am, yes."

"What kind of music? I wanna learn."

I smiled teasingly. "Okay," I said. "Go get my flute from the mantelpiece."

We sat together, Mickey perched on the chair's armrest, and together we played the plains flute. I played the Thunder Song for her, a dark, fast piece written thousands of years ago. Even back then the Shoshone were accustomed to flash floods. Rumbling, thundering darkness breaks loose, goes the song. The first time I heard it, it scared me a little. The notes are tumbling, one note crashing into the next; erratic and frantic and fierce. One of the most impressive smoke dancers I've ever met danced to that song some years ago. I still remember the way she moved; relentless; as powerful as nature, as dangerous as the monsoon.

After that I played the Song of the White Wolf. You know, in summertime, gray wolves shed their outer pelt and end up looking like they're coated in snow. That's where the name of the song comes from. The Shoshone used to pray to the Wolf as the benevolent half of God; but in summertime, they prayed to the White Wolf specifically.

"Play it again," Mickey demanded.

"You blow," I said, handing her the flute. "I'll cover the holes. Then you can try covering the holes yourself."

Rafael searched the mess that was his hair for a pencil stub. It happened to be one of those rare occasions when he didn't find one. He marched into the kitchen in his neverending pursuit. I swore I saw a smile on his face.

The night of the ghost dance was a chilly one. I bundled Mickey up in a fleece jacket and zipped it to her chin. She giggled, her eyes as bright as the stars above our heads. The cascading brook reflected an argent moon.

"Next year," Mickey said, "maybe I can play the music with you, too."

I straightened up and looked at Rafael. He was a shadow in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob; keys hanging from his fingers. I couldn't see his face. I could feel his smile.

"I'd like that," I said.

"Hey," Rafael said. "Hold up. You forgot something."

He skulked over to us and knelt on the ground. He showed Mickey the small, hollow turtleshell in his hand.

"What is that?" she asked.

He shook it, the stones sounding inside. "It's a rattle," he said. He tied it around her leg. "When you dance," he said, "it'll match the rhythm of the music."

Mickey shook her leg experimentally. She looked appeased.

Rafael stood up. "C'mon," he said. "We don't wanna be late."

We walked through the woods together. Owls hooted softly from the copse of brush-soft aspen trees tangled at the end of the brook, winglike lupins in lavender and frost blue crowded together at their gnarled, raised roots. Mickey's rattle clattered on her leg, her arms swinging at her sides.

She surprised me when she reached out and wrapped her hand around mine.

We followed the dirt path to the firepit; we followed the firepit to the north. The sky's hue matched shadowed ocean slate; the slate matched Rafael's eyes. I heard doors snapping shut in the wind. I saw Gabriel, Rosa, and Charity filing out of their house beneath the southern oak tree, Grandma Gives Light tagging after them. The four of them caught up with us when we were walking the slope to the badlands.

"You can stand next to me in the circle, Mickey," Charity said.

Grandma Gives Light narrowed her eyes at me. I smiled helplessly in return.

"Numu paa kutsapi'kontuih wuchamata huuppiammu."

"No thank you," I said politely.

Rafael and I held Mickey's hands when we walked out to the badlands, blue-gray clay crumbling beneath the soles of our shoes. "Careful," Rafael said to Mickey. She slipped twice. We righted her both times before she could fall.

"Kimma!" yelled Immaculata Quick at the front of the group.

She led us down a more stable path between the gullies. A gulch curved to our right. The hilly promontory drew closer, closer still, coyotes yipping at the moon.

I felt Mickey's hand tighten around mine. "What is that?"

"Don't worry," Rafael said. "Coyotes won't hurt you."

"That's rich, coming from you," Mary's gleeful voice rang out among the gorges. "Remember how scared shitless you were when you were a kid? That a coyote was going to come and carry you away?"

"Mary," Gabriel said sternly. I guess he still saw them as his children.

The next voice I heard belonged to Kaya--but I couldn't see her at all. Jeez, was it dark out here. "Carry him away?" she asked. She tsked thoughtfully. "So he had coyotes confused with dingoes."

I could practically hear Rafael gnashing his teeth.

"Actually, no," I said. "That's how we scare children over here. 'If you're bad, the Coyote will carry you away on his tail!' "

"Ah, Shoshone."

"Acha Dine!" Grandma Gives Light suddenly shrieked.

"If you can't insult me in a language I speak," Kaya mused.

The badlands opened up. A small grove of southern oak trees rested between the valleys. The ground was smooth here, the moon bright, bathing each of us in a shining, luminous glow. The fire built on top of brush and animal bones was almost unnecessary.

"Come on, Michaela," Charity said gently, and took Mickey's hand right out of mine.

The families all milled over to the bonfire. I saw William and Lorna with their girls--three of them, each as burly as their mother--and Autumn Rose with her hand on DeShawn's arm. Leon Little Hawk chased his brother Nicholas through the crowds and Nicholas screamed, because Nicholas didn't like pressure. Serafine Takes Flight handed out turtleshell rattles to the little girls and her father stood talking with Robert Has Two Enemies; Holly looked morose, Zeke babbling obliviously in her ear; Daisy and Isaac stood with their teenage son, an angry boy named Ryan who staunchly believed that the world was out to get him; Lila and Joseph sat idly on the ground with Morgan Stout and Siobhan Stout and their mother, Aisling Stout, a loony pediatrician in her fifties; and Dad was on the other side of the fire with Racine, Racine's arm around him for support.

I caught Dad's eye and waved at him. He smiled back at me, feeble, fleeting.

I sat on the chalky ground and tried to get comfortable, my plains flute hanging from my neck. Rafael crouched down and sat with me.

"Aren't you going to dance?" I asked.

"Nah," he said. "I hate dancing. Besides, I don't like you sitting alone."

I smiled at him, endeared. I knocked my knee against his. He threw his arm around me, as though to suggest he had the final word in this matter.

The families formed circles around the bonfire, one within the other. I saw Dad's water-gray eyes illuminated by the jumping, red-hot flames, his sad hawk's profile illuminated by the moonlight. The ghost dance is probably the most sacred dance we have to our name. It's a dance of mourning; a dance of celebration; a dance of reunion. What was Dad thinking about on this eve? Which of his many lost loved ones was at the forefront of his mind? The wife who had lied to him and died before they could patch things up? The best friend who had facilitated her death? The little brother who fell from the willow tree? The mother who couldn't look at him without seeing a cold little corpse?

I had a childish thought just then. I thought: It's not fair. And maybe it wasn't. It wasn't fair that Granny had passed away so soon, that she and Dad had never really talked about what happened to Uncle Julius. In a perfect story, mother and son would have sat down for a long discussion; they would have learned to put aside their differences. They would have reconciled; they would have loved each other more than ever. I'm sorry, Dad would have said. I forgive you, Granny would have said. And then they'd talk. They'd talk, like a real mother and father, like people who really loved each other. They'd talk like I'd never seen them talk in my entire life.

Granny and Dad would never talk again. They'd had their chance to repair their relationship, and instead they'd looked the other way and pretended not to notice the rift between them. I'd noticed it. I'd noticed it so many times, and I'd never said a word. Of course I couldn't have, even if I'd wanted to; I didn't have a voice until now.

And when I think about it...I suppose Granny had never had a voice, either. Or Dad. They were Shoshone. They weren't supposed to talk when they were in pain.

That's an awfully long time to live in silence.

Stuart Stout started talking. Every year the tribal council reminds us of the significance of the ghost dance, the bloodshed and sorrow soaked across its history: how the Plains People danced for their lost loved ones, for the promise of a better future with the European settlers; how the whites didn't like the ghost dance and slaughtered whomever they caught performing it. I've always thought of the relationship between America and her immigrants as that of a mother and a child. The mother is generous; she gives and she gives, until she's given all she has; and still the child demands more. One day he grows up, and he turns away from her, and when she's old and alone, he leaves her to die without sparing her a second thought. But she gave him everything she could, you see. She never said no. What kind of mother says no to her son?

I lifted my flute to my lips. I started to play.

The night wind rushed between the valleys and the gorges. The turtleshells clattered in time with Offerings for an Empty Sky, a slow and mournful piece. The dancers moved slowly, solemnly, in their circles. Rafael's arm around me was solid and warm and I pressed against him, indelible comfort washing over me. Was he thinking about his father? About his mother? The ghost dance was a way of reuniting the living with the dead. What words would his mother have whispered to him, were she still alive?

I closed my eyes, my fingers skittering across the plains flute. I thought about my own mother.

I thought about my grandmother. I thought about my uncle, the man he never grew up to be, the little boy I never met. I don't know whether there's such a thing as an afterlife; but it sure is a comforting thought. Maybe my mother and Rafael's became friends. Maybe Granny can finally take her smallest son into her arms again.

Do you know how death first came into the world? That's right; there once was a time when nobody knew what it meant to die.

Long ago, we Plains People lived in harmony with the Wolf. We loved him, and he loved us. We were a part of his pack. Coyote saw the love between Wolf and the Plains People, and he grew jealous. His heart filled up with hatred.

So Coyote decided to trick his brother. One day he said to Wolf, "Well? It's very good that death is not permanent, and the people do not suffer for long. But what will you do when the planet has run out of food, water, and space to keep everyone alive?"

"What are you saying?" Wolf asked.

"I'm saying that you ought to consider making death a one-way road. That way there will be enough resources for everyone."

"Why couldn't I just make more resources?" Wolf said. "Another world?"

Coyote grew afraid. He could see his brother had read right into the heart of his intentions.

"Yes," Wolf said. "I know exactly what you're trying to do. But alright. We'll do as you say. The dead will stay dead."

And the very next day, what should happen but the deadly Rattlesnake biting Coyote's son, and Coyote learning loss for the first time.

The dead don't know what it means to die. Only the living can know it. Only the living live with loss, heartache, and grief.

I couldn't tell you what time it was when the ghost dance finally wound down. The sky had forfeited the last of its ocean slate; now it was empty and black, interspersed only half-heartedly with stars. The fire burned down to its embers, the animal bones left intact.

"C'mon," Rafael said. He unfolded his legs and stood up.

I grabbed his arm and pointed at Mickey and Charity.

Or it was supposed to be Mickey and Charity. Charity was off gabbing with Serafine instead. For a moment I was upset, and I wondered whether Charity was ignoring Mickey on purpose. Soon I realized it was probably the other way around.

Mickey had her turtleshell rattle in her hands. She stood by the dying bonfire with a big smile on her face. I couldn't hear what she was saying; but I saw that she was talking to Henry Siomme.

"That kid's too old for her," Rafael declared, flaring up with parental fury.

"Rafael, he's twelve."

"So what? You think twelve-year-olds aren't sneaky bastards? My sister was twelve when she stuffed Stu's cat down a water well."

"I doubt very much that Henry's killed any cats lately," I said, trying my best not to laugh.

"Skylar," said a new voice.

Until now I had forgotten DeShawn's plan to bus the Paiute down to Nettlebush for the ghost dance. I had assumed the tribe just didn't take him up on the offer. Now I realized at least some of them had.

The young woman standing in front of me was my cousin, Marilu; a Paiute girl. Her hair was squared off just below her chin, her eyes made smaller by her glasses. Her nose was about the size and shape of a button, something I used to tease her over when we were children.

As it was, I smiled wanly. "Hi, Marilu."

"Hey," Rafael said. He always tries to act nice toward Marilu. "Where you staying tonight?"

She looked tired. The trip from the Pleasance Reserve to Nettlebush is a long one. "I don't know," she said, after a long moment of deliberation. "I guess with Uncle Paul."

"Don't be silly," I said. "There's plenty of room for you in our house."

"You sure? Don't want to be a bother..."

"Hi," Mickey said, traipsing over to us. "Henry said he's going to teach me to ride a horse." She eyed Marilu suddenly. "Who's this?"

"Mickey," I said, before Rafael started issuing death threats against a twelve-year-old boy. "This is my cousin, Marilu."

Marilu looked at Mickey the way you would have expected her to look at an alien lifeform. "You have a kid...? Since when?"

"Foster kid," Rafael said.

Mickey opened her mouth, then closed it. Her forehead wrinkled.

"She's spending the summer with us," I said. "We'll tell you the rest later. Why don't we hurry on home? I'm sure you'll want something to drink after the long ride here."

"Alright," Marilu said. "Fell asleep on the Amtrak..."

The walk back home was an unusual one. Mickey had nothing to say--disconcerting, when she was ordinarily full of questions and off-color comments--and Marilu made me think of a sleepwalker, in that she didn't strike me as entirely conscious of her surroundings. She's had it rough, Marilu. The Paiute reservation's built on some really junky land and the government slaps so many restrictions on it, the residents can't even make simple house repairs when they need them. Normally the Paiute don't let their poverty keep them from having a good time, but I'd imagine all those adverse conditions wear down your resolve after a while.

Marilu was asleep the very instant she sat down in our sitting room. Rafael darted upstairs to find blankets for her.

"Bedtime," I said to Mickey.

She caught me unawares when she tossed her turtleshell rattle to the floor--hard--the rattle slamming and skidding across the hardwood. She spun on her heel and stormed up the staircase.

Rafael came walking down the stairs, confusion on his face, a blanket thrown over his shoulder.

"What'd you do to piss her off?" he asked.

I shook my head, at a loss.

11

Cry Havoc

My cousin Marilu stayed with us for a few days out of August. She was as much of a zombie as she had been during the ghost dance; inert, unresponsive, lost in another world. To make matters worse, Mickey's foul mood crested and climbed with no end in sight.

"Do you know what I think it might be?" Dad commented, when he came to visit one day.

"What?" I asked.

He looked around quickly to make sure neither Mickey nor Marilu was haunting the premises. Finally, he whispered: "That time of the month."

I stared at him.

Dad started to color. "I mean," he went on, stammering. "Your mother told me about this ages ago; apparently women in the same household...they...well, they synch up. You see..."

"Dad," I said. "Mickey's ten."

He didn't understand.

"Never mind," I said, and patted the back of his hand.

Marilu didn't stay with us for long. On Sunday, I saw her out to the bus stop outside the turnpike. She sat on the windy little bench, the picture of unhappiness.

"Hey," I said, and sat next to her.

"It's so empty," Marilu said. "At home. Ever since he left..."

She was talking about her best friend.

I pressed a hand lightly against her back. "Why don't you stay here?" I asked. "In Nettlebush. At least you'd be with family."

"Thanks," she said with a sigh, "but I can't keep running away forever. I'll see you in winter, Sky."

I watched her climb on the bus when it rolled up to our stop. I lifted my hand and waved.

I walked home and found Carole Svensen sitting at my computer.

"Oh, sir, it's good news," she promised. "I found you a lawyer in New Mexico. We're playing internet chess."

I gave her a thumbs up and climbed the staircase to the second floor. I thought I'd heard Rafael's voice coming from Mickey's room. Sure enough they were sitting together on her bed--along with one very fluffy gray kitten.

I paused in the doorway and looked again. "That can't be right," I said.

"Sky!" Mickey's foul mood had reached its end at last. She scooped the mewling furball into her arms. "Look what Rafael gave me! Isn't she cute?"

"You got her a cat?" I asked Rafael. I hoped I didn't sound as incredulous as I felt.

"It's just," Rafael said hastily, "the Tyke's cat keeps breeding, and she's got no room for all those damn babies--"

"Rafael, Sarah Two Eagles is twenty-eight," I said. "I don't think she's a tyke anymore."

"Can I feed her?" Mickey asked.

I looked to Rafael.

"Yeah," Rafael told me. "The T--Sarah gave me a tin of milk. S'on the table."

"Go ahead, then," I said to Mickey.

Mickey crooned with delight and carried her new friend down the stairs.

"A cat, Rafael?" I asked politely.

"What?" he said, defensive. "She kept stomping around like a damn--a damn--"

"Like Godzilla?"

"What?"

"You really need to watch a movie one of these days."

"Like that stupid thing with King Tut? Yeah, right--"

"The cat, Rafael," I said, returning to the point.

"Anyway, Mickey was stomping around like--like I-don't-know-what. And she told us about that cat she used to have, the one her mom killed--"

"Oh. You think she was upset because she remembered her cat?"

"Well, yeah," Rafael said, running his hand through the back of his hair. "Don't you?"

"It makes sense..." I agreed.

"Help!" Mickey yelled up the stairs. "She's going to the bathroom!"

Rafael and I looked at each other.

"Clean it up," I said, and pointed at the door.

He scowled and trudged outside.

The next several days saw a definite shift in Mickey's attitude. She named the cat "Mini"--apparently a reference to her new friend's size, but if you believe that one, I'll tell you another. She was so attentive with that kitten--feeding her milk from a dropper until she was strong enough for solids, taking her to bed at night--I didn't have it in me to rally against Rafael for making the choice without me. Even when I broke out in a ferocious rash.

"Are you allergic?" Rafael asked one night, when we were getting ready to go to bed.

"What gave you that idea?" I asked grimly, and scraped my fingernails across my skin.

Dad seemed to like the kitten, too. He came around one day with a handmade scratching post and praised her prowling gait and her clear blue eyes. She completely snubbed him, though, in favor of teething on my plains flute. I could see I'd made myself an enemy.

Cats and scratching boards and plains flutes aside, there was a bigger matter on my mind. Zeke had mentioned that we'd better get a move on if we wanted to adopt Mickey.

One sweltering August day found the three of us sitting in the dark cellar below the kitchen, accompanied by a flashlight, alleviated by blocks of misty ice. The four of us, I should say. Mickey had Mini wrapped snugly in a pendleton blanket and pressed to her chest for warmth. Smart girl.

"See," Rafael said. "This is the best place on earth."

Mickey rolled her eyes. "You said that about the badlands."

"So what?" he challenged. "There can be two best places on earth."

"Uh, no," she retorted. "There's only one 'best,' that's why it's superlative..."

"Pearl-what?"

Mickey blanched. She looked at me, repulsed. I gave her a tiny little smile. "Yes," I said, "he's always been like this. Mickey, can I ask you something?"

She checked at that, suspicious. "Sure..."

I chose my words carefully. "School starts pretty soon."

Mickey's face contorted with antipathy. "Thanks for reminding me."

I swear to God, that cat was sneering at me. I scratched the rashes running up my wrists. I'm onto you, I thought.

"It's just," Rafael said. I smiled at him. "You wanna go to school here?" he asked. "On the reservation?"

"With Henry's dad?" Mickey piped up.

Rafael looked ready to let slip the dogs of war. "Yes," I said, before he could cry havoc. "Henry's dad is the teacher here."

Mickey considered it. She nodded slowly. "Sure," she said. "I wanna go to school here. It's probably better than my old school."

Mickey perked up suddenly. "Could I blow up a water fountain, like you did, Sky?"

"Almost did," I said.

Rafael tossed me an affronted look. "No, you can't," he told Mickey.

"But you're welcome to try," I added.

The horrified look on Rafael's face was flawless. I smiled angelically.

"Anyway," Rafael went on. I was glad he had followed my train of thought. "How about Christmas? You wanna spend Christmas here, too?"

"What do you guys do for Christmas?" Mickey asked curiously.

"Why don't you stick around," I suggested, wiggling my eyebrows, "and find out?"

Mini mewled contentedly against Mickey's shirt. I reconsidered our rivalry with some level of approval. I guessed I could call a stalemate, just this once.

"I could stay?" Mickey asked cautiously. "If I wanted to?"

"If you wanted to," I said.

She brushed her fingers gently over Mini's tufted gray ears.

"I'll think about it," she finally said.

September came much too soon for my liking. I piled fresh notebooks into Mickey's backpack--bright red, just the way she liked it--and swung the straps over her shoulders. I whisked the baseball cap off her head.

"No hats in the classroom," I said. "Mr. Red Clay doesn't like it."

"Mr. Siomme," she corrected. She placed her breakfast bowl on the floor when she thought I wasn't looking. Mini leapt down from the scrubbed countertop and lapped up the remnants of her blue corn mush.

"You're not gonna run off, are you?" Rafael said scathingly. He sat fastening a new iron head to his hunting spear. "Because everybody knows everybody here, so if you skip school--"

"I'm not stupid, Rafael."

"Oh yeah? You think I'm gonna forget you ran off and tempted the bears?"

Mickey didn't respond. But the way she smiled--and tried to hide it against her shoulder, her head turned--I knew as well as she did that she wasn't stupid at all. On the contrary, she was a frighteningly cunning little girl.

And as it happened, we didn't need to worry about her skipping school at all. A knock sounded at our front door--a rarity in Nettlebush--and when I opened it, I found Henry Siomme on the other side.

"Hi, Mr. St. Clair," he said, smiling sunnily. God, he's just like his mother. "Could I walk Michaela to school?"

I didn't have time to process his proposal. Mickey rushed past me, her hair flying behind her in a messy cloud. Was it my imagination, or were her cheeks tinged pink? "Bye Sky!" she called out. "Bye Rafael!"

I closed the door after them, dumbfounded. Rafael stepped into the front room, Mini clutched safely in his tattooed arms.

"Henry Siomme," he said through gritted teeth.

"Foster daughter stealer," I mourned. I finally understood Rafael's qualms.

Rafael left to go hunting with his uncle in the badlands. I decided it was about time someone tackled the laundry--most daunting of tasks--so I tossed our dirty clothes in the wash basin and dragged it outside, washboard in tow.

Mickey's kitten, as I was starting to realize, was an outdoor cat. She stalked after me on her soft pads, her head low to the ground, like a fearsome predator. She sat with me when I knelt by the brook and rinsed Mickey's "Stop Looking at Me" shirt.

"Stare at me all you want," I said. "I know you're waiting for me to let my guard down before you strike."

And she didn't try to deny it.

Immediately following the unpleasant bout with our laundry I headed out west to see whether Annie could use any help. Lila and Joseph strolled past me with their fishing boat suspended above their heads and Aubrey and his brothers worked hard at hilling the soil in front of the farm manor. It wouldn't be long now before the enormous autumn harvest.

We cooked, Annie and I, in the kitchen, one of those boring, mundane tasks you've done so many times that before you know it, your hands are working without any input from your mind. We filled dozens and dozens of pots with mattache, or corn and onions braised in butter; we left them standing on the counters to be warmed again in the evening.

"It's so nice, having the boys out of the house," she told me. We went into the foyer and readied the hearth for sagebread. I opened the door to the patio and hoped the heat would drift outside. "I love them, of course, but they're positively infuriating. Leon's decided he has a vendetta against pants."

"Think he'll demonstrate that vendetta in the middle of the classroom?"

"Mm, I don't doubt it. And Nicholas was keeping a pet mudworm and it died--"

"Oh, no."

"--and now he walks up to strangers and asks them when they're going to die--is that a kitten?"

"Rafael picked her up for Mickey," I said. Mini had followed me into the foyer; now she strolled out onto the patio. "She's killed two dragonflies already. She's a terror."

"Well, Skylar, that's what cats do."

"Not this one, Annie. There's an evil gleam in her eye, I'm telling you."

"Don't be silly."

"You know I can't promise that."

We retreated into the pantry. Annie showed me her back, Celia and Elizabeth sitting contentedly in their twin cradleboards. I got out the wild sage while Annie searched for the bottled yeast.

"Really, though," she said. She does that sometimes--that is, she'll address you like you were already in the middle of a conversation with her. Really what, Annie? We went into the kitchen and started mixing the flour by hand. "Two men raising a little girl..."

It took me a while to realize Annie was referring to Rafael and me. "You're not afraid we'll turn her into a trucker," I said solemnly, "are you?"

"I've seen your little girl. She's already a trucker. But what are you going to do when she starts needing bras and sanitary napkins?"

Distant terror started sinking in. "Bras... That's still a thing?"

"What did you think it was, a passing trend?"

"Why don't you just let them fly free? You've got nothing to be ashamed of, right?"

"Thank you for reminding me--I've got to feed Celia yet, she didn't feel like eating this morning."

"I'm not sticking around to see that," I said quickly.

"Have a nice day," she said sweetly.

I scooped Mini into my arms and humbly left Annie's house. I retreated to my own home around noon to see whether I had any updates from Carole Svensen. I didn't--maybe it was her day off, I don't know how the outside world works--but a catastrophe of a different nature met my ears.

I don't know whether I've mentioned this, but in Nettlebush, the average school day is only four hours long. Our ancestors were smart enough to realize that children have a hard time paying attention any longer than that.

Mickey was already home. Rafael, too.

And that God awful metal music was screeching out of the stereo in the sitting room.

I set Mini down and she hissed at me, like it was my fault. She darted into the kitchen for cover. I covered my ears with my hands and encroached carefully on the warzone.

For a moment, I was spellbound. There were obvious discrepancies between them--Rafael's hair raven-black, Mickey's face freckled and snubbed--but the way they thrashed and bopped their heads...well, it reminded me of something out of a Catholic exorcism. I was starting to wonder whether I ought to call in a priest. They were even dressed kind of alike, I realized: in plaid button-downs, Mickey's a size too large, Rafael's jeans ruined at the knees.

I made my way over to the stereo and shut it off. Silence. Sweet silence. Two indignant heads whipped in my direction.

"This doesn't look like homework," I said lightly.

Mickey's face lit up, catching me off guard. "School was awesome!" she said. She hopped over to the sofa and clapped her hands. Mini came prowling out of the kitchen. "Mr. Siomme told us about the Si...Si..."

"Si-Te-Cah," I supplied gently. I sat with her.

"And I already knew about them eating each other so I answered a question right. I never did that before. And then he paired us up for reading and Nick was actually really nice today. He kept asking me when I was going to die, though."

"What?" said Rafael, bewildered.

"Hang on," I said, backtracking. "Did you say school was 'awesome'?"

Mickey pinched her eyebrows together. "Yes. Why?"

"Where did you get that from?" I wondered.

"Not from me," said a surly Rafael.

"Me, neither," I said. "Must be a genetic throwback."

It was funny to watch Mickey screw up her face with bemusement. "What are you morons talking about?"

"Nothing, sweetheart," I said. "Do your homework."

"Fine," Mickey grumbled, and zipped open her backpack.

Charity came along a little while later, and the girls sat by the brook with the treacherous gray fluffball, reading from their battered old history books. I watched them from the window with a small smile on my face. Time moves way too fast. I can still remember reading from those books when I was in school myself.

I felt a pair of arms wrap around my waist. I felt a chin resting on my shoulder.

"She's pretty awesome, too," Rafael said, his voice in my ear.

My smile deepened. I traced his winding chain tattoo idly with my fingertips. "Are you sure you're not just saying that because she likes your terrible music?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Rafael contested. "Anyone who calls the saxophone good music must've had his brains scrambled in the womb."

"Sounds appetizing."

"She's kind of like you," he said. "She's smart."

I considered that. "Thank you, first of all," I said. I don't know whether I'd call myself smart. "But she's more like you. She's very cranky."

"I'm not cranky. I'm differently tempered."

"I can't believe you just said that."

"Yeah, me neither."

"Do you know anything about bras?" I asked.

I could hear the uncertainty in his voice when he replied. "What, like I've ever seen one up close and in person?"

"You're right," I said, after some reflection. "I'll ask Jessica when I see her."

I saw Jessica at dinner that night, when Morgan Stout was debuting his new woodland flute for all of us. She laughed so hard, my face turned red. Women. Why can't you ask them a simple question and get a simple answer in return?

"Maybe she doesn't need a bra when she gets older," Rafael grunted, when we went to bed that night. "Maybe she can just toss 'em over her shoulders."

"Have you ever actually known anyone who did that?" I asked.

"My grandma," he said. And he said it so plainly, so forthright, I honestly didn't know whether he was joking or serious. "Not Grandma Gives Light, the other one."

"Oh, the one with the claws."

"Yeah. Her bust was huge. Like a floatation device."

"Is Grandma Gives Light sticking around Nettlebush?" I asked.

Rafael pulled the bedsheets down the mattress. He pulled a face. "Matter of fact, she is. Uncle Gabe's pretty worried about it--because, you know, she's kinda old--"

"That's one way of putting it--"

"--and if she kicks the bucket in their house, they're gonna have to move. And, you know, they like that house."

"I like it, too."

"Yeah. I like our house better, though." Rafael lay down, his hair fanning across his pillow. "Any of Balto's pups been around lately?"

I shook my head and smiled. I lay next to him.

Our room's pretty nice, you know. Blue-white walls and a carpet in pendleton orange and gray. A photo of Annie sits on the windowsill. The rest of our photos sit on the closet door. That closet's an unmaneuverable mess. I still have to steel myself whenever I open it.

Rafael's eyes were on me. I could feel them even when I turned off the lamp at my bedside.

It's funny. All it takes is a look from him and I feel like a dumb, helpless, enamored idiot. I feel like I'm a kid all over again. All these years later.

That just can't be anything but love.

I reached for his hand and found it in the darkness, guided by the moonlight streaming through the window. I twined my fingers with his. His palm curved against mine. I like that, you know? I like to feel him. I like to know he's there. He's always going to be there.

A knock sounded on the door; and before either of us could answer it, Mickey stepped inside, her long hair tumbling around her face.

"You shouldn't'a done that," Rafael said gruffly, turning his lamp on. "How do you know we weren't thanking each other?"

"Huh?" Mickey asked, her hand on the doorknob.

"Never mind," I said. "Get over here."

She climbed up over the bed and perched between Rafael and me. She played with the ends of her hair, probably to avoid looking either of us in the eye.

I touched her shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

"I can't sleep."

"Oh? Why not?"

She hesitated; and then she shivered, sliding down against the mattress. I looked at Rafael over her prone head.

"You have a bad dream?" Rafael asked. Already he was fast at work pulling the blankets up to her chin.

"What? No. Honest," she said. "Just...you know."

By the look on Rafael's face, he very clearly did not know. Neither did I, truth be told.

"What if she comes back?" Mickey asked.

Weighted with sadness, I combed my fingers through her hair. "She can't hurt you," I told her. "She went to prison."

"Well, what if she breaks out? That happens sometimes. Doesn't it?"

"Not as often as you'd think," I said.

Mickey didn't seem assuaged. She folded her hands atop the bedcovers--diplomatically, I thought--her forehead puckering in the lamplight.

"Hey," Rafael said.

She turned her head just slightly.

"If she comes here, and she tries to get you?"

I frowned, not entirely sure he should give credence to that scenario.

"I'm big," Rafael said. "You see my muscles? I won't let her get to you. I'll pick her up and throw her off the reservation."

"You can't do that," Mickey said.

"Why not?" he said. "You think I'm not tough enough?"

He sat on his knees. He picked her up and plucked her off the bed.

"Hey!" she yelped, swinging her arms. Her protests transformed into giggles. Rafael held her effortlessly over his head. "Sky!" she appealed. "Help me!"

"Okay," I said. I stuck my fingers beneath her belly and tickled her. She pealed with laughter, bright and musical, the best sound I had ever heard.

Later on she fell asleep between the two of us, her cheek on Rafael's arm, her hair tickling my neck. I brushed the fringe from her closed eyes with the pads of my fingers. I thought about how perfect she looked to me. How I suddenly couldn't remember what our home had looked like without her.

In Shoshone, there's a saying. It's a long one, and it doesn't have an English equivalent, so bear with me.

Sutummu tukummuinna. It means: I don't speak your language, and you don't speak mine. But I still understand you. I don't need to walk in your footsteps if I can see the footprints you left behind.

Those Shoshone. They really think of everything.

12

Has Two Enemies

You know it's autumn when the bergenias are in bloom.

Nettlebush was crawling with bergenias come mid-September. One day after school I took Mickey on a walk through the woods and I showed them to her, exquisite, copper-red plants with heart-shaped leaves.

"Why do you know so much about plants?" she asked me, Mini traipsing leisurely at her heels. Damn that double agent.

"Because I like them," I said simply. "Actually, most plants can be used for medicine. A lot of people don't know that these days."

Mickey's head tilted to one side. "Medicine? Really..." She poked the edge of a bergenia plant with the very tip of her sneaker. "What kind of medicine does this one have?"

"Well, you might not believe this," I said. "But Plains People used to chew on the roots when they wanted to lose weight."

Mickey tossed me an impertinent look. "You should try it," she suggested.

I returned her look very sternly.

We walked together down the forest path. I stopped her and pointed out an inconspicuous weed resting under the shade of an alder tree. Mickey bent down and scooped Mini into her arms.

"That guy over there," I said, "that's arnica. If you've got a bruise, or a cut, you put the leaves on the afflicted area. It helps it heal."

"I could've used that when Jeremy Delson gave me a black eye," Mickey muttered.

"That won't be a problem anymore," I said mildly. "Will it?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Good." I bent down to cull and pocket a few of the arnica leaves. "I was always using this on Rafael when we were kids," I explained. "He got into fistfights, too."

Mickey seemed to like that. "Just like me," she said.

"Just like you."

I took her off the path and led her to a running stream, one of the lake's right-tributaries. I pointed out the fan-like ferns standing in the autumn sun.

"We call those licorice ferns," I said.

Mickey stood up straight. "I know why!" she said. "I bet they help you if you have a sore throat."

"Exactly," I said, with a surge of pride. I tousled her hair. "I told you you were very smart."

"Shut up," she said with a grin.

I checked my wristwatch. I had to head home soon for a conference call. I put my arm around her shoulders and we walked back down the path.

"Rafael got into a lot of fights?" Mickey asked.

"He did," I said. "A lot of people didn't understand him."

"You mean the way he grunts?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Not that," I said. "They understood his speech just fine. What I mean is...they would look at Rafael, and they would remember what his father had done to their families."

"Oh," Mickey said quietly, and she seemed to shrink in on herself, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

We went home and I turned on the computer monitor in the front room. I sat down at the squat pine desk. I was surprised when I saw Mickey's face reflected on the computer screen, just over my shoulder. She stood behind me, silent and inert.

I turned around. "Would you like me to make you a snack?"

"No," Mickey said. She knelt and set Mini on the floor. The treacherous fluffball strode off, no doubt in search of her next unsuspecting victim. My wrists itched and swelled in sympathy.

Mickey stood up and looked me in the eye. "If Rafael's dad was so bad...weren't you ever scared of him?"

"I was very scared of his father," I said.

"Not his father. Him. Rafael."

I paused. "A little bit," I confessed. "When we first met."

"But you're not afraid of him anymore?"

"No," I said, and smiled. "Anybody who knows Rafael couldn't possibly be afraid of him. Are you afraid of him?"

She stuck her tongue out at me. "No way," she said.

"Then there you have it," I said. But I suspected there was a deeper reason behind her line of questioning. I gave her a serious look. "What's on your mind?"

Mickey scuffed at the hardwood floor with the worn soles of her sneakers. I told myself I ought to buy her a new pair the next time I went into the city. "Rafael's not like his dad..." she began. "So that means I'm not like my mom. Right?"

I didn't immediately know how to respond.

"Because I don't want to hurt people," Mickey said emphatically. "Like, I don't want to have a baby someday, and then get mad at her and--and stab her!"

Her eyes were wide; I saw the way her pupils dilated with recollection. Just thinking about how terrified she must have been that night...

Suddenly I didn't care whether she wanted me to hug her or not. I took her into my arms and pulled her close. She didn't hug me back--I hadn't really expected her to--but she sat comfortably on my knee.

"Everything you do," I said, "you get to decide 'yes' or 'no.' All you have to do is say, 'I don't want to hurt people.' "

"I don't want to hurt people."

"Then you won't."

"Are you sure?"

I leveled her with my gaze. "Positive."

She nodded slowly; I didn't know whether I'd gotten through to her or not. "Okay," she said. "You seem smart, so I'll believe you..."

"Thank you. You're a very smart girl yourself."

"Can I go to Charity's house?"

I couldn't keep from smiling. "You can. Just make sure you feed Mini first."

"Oh, Sky, it's okay. She already ate some butterfly eggs when she picked me up from school."

I grimaced. "Lovely."

I watched Mickey walk out the front door. I was tempted to walk her to Gabriel's house myself, but I figured smothering her would only irritate her. She's ten, I told myself, not two. And Nettlebush is a pretty safe place. As long as you stay away from the black bears, anyway.

The black bears. Oh God. I started to panic. Stop, I told myself. She's got her pager. She's a good girl. She won't do it again.

I booted up the computer, slightly at a loss. I confess I still don't know much about modern technology--all those kids running around with their Tweeters and their Hooters and their what-have-you. After carefully studying the sticky note Carole Svensen had helpfully left on the edge of my keyboard, I managed to get the camera mounted atop the monitor up and running.

I was in for a bit of a wait. One of my correspondents was on a completely different timezone. But eventually, the black of the computer screen faded away, and two separate faces took its place.

"Hello?" said the woman on...my left, I suppose. Her cheeks were thick and full, set high on a heart-shaped face. What I could make out of her arms looked broad and square. She sure looked cold, if that parka were to be trusted. "Can you hear me?"

The guy on my right--her left? I don't know--was bald and shiny, with thin lips and very round ears. I guessed he was in his fifties. I don't mean to be rude, but at a glance, he sort of reminded me of Count Orlok. His smile was pretty friendly, though. "Hi," he said.

"Hi!" said the woman. She rubbed her hands together. Yep; she was freezing. The wall behind her looked like it belonged to a log cabin, not unlike my own. Was that a fishing spear hanging from the rafters? "Stacy," she introduced.

"Ogden," Count Orlok returned.

"Hey," I said. I coughed, suddenly aware of how raspy my voice sounded. "I guess this is all of us?"

"Just for now," Stacy said cheerfully. "That cute little go-getter's bound to find more people in no time."

"Carole's definitely a self-starter," I said with a grin.

"When's she going to take the bar?" Stacy asked curiously. But Orlok preempted her, although I don't think he intended to.

"An Article V Convention," he said, rubbing his chin. "Not every day you get an opportunity to sign up for one of those..."

"That's why I'm hoping we'll have more takers," I said.

"We could be like a supercommittee," Orlok said. "Just changing whatever part of the law we don't like."

"Within reason," I said, a little alarmed.

"So..." Stacy said. "What's the first order of business?"

I cleared my throat. "Well," I said, "I don't know if you know about this--"

"Oh, I know about it," Stacy said. "Look at me, I'm as Inuit as they get."

I smiled. "Then I'd like to focus on Oliphant v. Suquamish," I said.

"The 1978 case?" Orlok said.

"Right, the one where they decided Natives can't prosecute non-Natives."

"Easy," Orlok said. "The 14th Amendment calls for law enforcement to treat all citizens without racial or religious profiling. Restricting Native American law enforcement by granting them authority over a specific race violates that amendment."

"You're right," I realized, impressed. "Hold on, I want to write this down."

I reached for my notepad. So did Stacy, by the looks of it, when she ducked momentarily offscreen. She grinned sheepishly once she'd returned.

"What about the Major Crimes Act?" Stacy piped up. "Natives are supposed to defer to the federal government for crimes like murder, but the feds never bother showing up."

"I think," Orlok said, "we want to find a way to repeal that act, rather than revise it."

"I agree," I said. "I'd rather return rightful jurisdiction to the reservations than stand around trying to convince the FBI to give a damn."

"Weeeeell," Stacy said slowly, and chewed on the eraser at the end of her pencil. "If we could prove the Major Crimes Act is unconstitutional..."

"I'd argue the very idea of a 'major' crime is unconstitutional," Orlok said. "It's implying that there's such a thing as a minor crime."

"The Constitution," I said. "Article 1, Section 8 establishes reservations as sovereign nations separate from centralized government. We could argue that the Major Crimes Act violates Section 8 by imposing centralized government."

"Sounds good to me," Stacy said, and scribbled in her notebook.

"Hang on," Orlok said, "my kid's calling me."

Stacy and I took a moment to catch up on our notes. Orlok disappeared from my computer screen. He returned presently with a friendly grin.

"And...the ICWA, right?" he said.

I swallowed.

"Yeah..." Stacy said, sounding pensive. She put her pencil down. "How do we stop the government from taking Indian children out of stable homes?"

All three of us were momentarily silent.

"The Indian Child Welfare Act," I said. "There's a clause in that act that grants the federal government the authority to terminate Indian parents' rights. 25 USC. The problem is, 25 USC doesn't specify when the government is allowed to terminate Indian parents' rights."

"Meaning..." Stacy trailed off. "The government can terminate Indian parents' rights for no reason at all."

The second silence that followed was longer than the first.

"How do we undo something like that?" Stacy said.

I closed my eyes and massaged my temples. The truth was that we couldn't. We couldn't do anything about it. There aren't any laws concerning children in the Constitution. Did you know that? Child protection laws are determined by the state. If Louisiana suddenly decides it's okay to whip your kid, there's nothing the rest of the country can do about it.

"The ICWA doesn't violate any pre-existing law," Orlok said.

"We'll just have to propose an amendment," I said.

"It would be easier if we could prove an amendment is actually in order," Orlok reminded me.

"I know," I agreed. That didn't mean I had to like it.

"Hey," Stacy said softly. "Cheer up! We're an Article V Convention! We've already got Alaska, Arizona, and New Mexico. All we need is to find lawyers from thirty-one other states, and then we can pass whatever law we want. Just think," she said, her voice dreamy. "We could declare every Sunday a day of nudity..."

"How about we discuss that one next time?" I suggested, a smile on my face, my chin on my hand.

"Next week," Stacy agreed. "I'll be there bright and early. And naked."

She cut off her feed before I could figure out whether she was serious.

I met up with Mickey and Rafael at the firepit that night while Autumn Rose and Prairie Rose were handing out dinner. Grandma Gives Light narrowed her eyes at me and I smiled and waved. Mickey and Rafael and I sat together at the picnic table; Dad and Racine joined us.

"Dad," I said. "The Hopi pauwau's next month. You should come."

Dad faltered. "I haven't seen the Black Mountain Reservation in years," he admitted. "Even before prison..."

Racine squeezed his hand.

"What's the Hopi pauwau?" Mickey asked.

Rafael tapped her arm. "Remember the tribe that wore all those dark colors?"

"Uh-huh."

"They're the Hopi. We hold the summer pauwau and they hold the autumn pauwau."

"Oh. What about winter and spring?" Mickey asked.

"The Paiute and the Navajo."

"Sky's cousin is Paiute, isn't she? She's weird."

"Tsitsaseh kimmayu!" Grandma Gives Light suddenly screamed.

"I defy you to find anybody weirder than her," I said to Mickey.

Mickey waved good night to Nicholas and Charity and we walked home after dinner, Mickey bouncing on her heels. I pretended not to notice.

"Hey," Rafael said, when he unlocked the front door. "We should get you a rope swing."

"That's okay," Mickey said. "The swings behind the school are fun."

Mickey threw a different proposal at us the moment we stepped inside. "Can we listen to Megadeth again?"

"No," I said. "Not unless you built a soundproof room within the last few days and didn't tell me."

Mickey groaned. She dropped to her knees.

At first I thought she was being dramatic. You know how kids are when they don't get their way. But when she slumped over suddenly, her cheek hitting the hardwood floor, I realized she couldn't possibly have scripted this.

It was instantaneous; Rafael and I raced for her at the same time. The both of us took her into our arms. Ultimately I let go so Rafael could pick her up.

Mickey closed her eyes and shuddered, her chest heaving with effort. I reached for her pulse on her wrist. Her skin was ice cold.

"Michaela?" I said. She stirred, but didn't answer me. "What is this?" I asked Rafael shakily.

"I don't--I don't know." Sometimes I forget that Rafael's a speech therapist, not a doctor.

"It got cold," Mickey mumbled, her voice muffled by Rafael's shoulder.

Rafael and I didn't need to confer with each other. I thought: We're taking her to the hospital. And Rafael thought it, too. He carried her out the door while I ran up the stairs. Willow leaves for fever, burdock for blood circulation. I didn't know what was wrong with her and I was terrified. I dug underneath my bed, dug through the plastic bags filled with home remedies. I was tempted to call Dad for help. I think we all revert to childhood, at least a little bit, when we're afraid. We all look for that one figure who made us feel the safest.

I ran out the door after Rafael and Mickey. I caught up with them on the forest path, seal bags in my hand. Mickey never had the chance to take her fleece jacket off. I was grateful for that. This night was a really cold one.

We practically sprinted to the hospital. We bust through the sliding doors.

Mrs. Bright, the receptionist, peered flatly at me from the top of her desk.

"Been a while since I've seen you," she said.

Mrs. Bright and I go way back.

Rafael carried Mickey to the waiting room while I signed her in at the front desk. My hands shook ridiculously, my signature near illegible.

"Skylar?"

I looked up and found Jessica staring back at me. I hadn't realized she was on call tonight.

"Are you busy right now?" I asked, laughing. I don't know why I was laughing. I think that's a thing I do when I start to freak out.

She shook her head. She followed me calmly into the waiting room. Mickey sat curled up on Rafael's lap, her head on his shoulder; her eyes closed.

"What happened?" Jessica asked. And then--probably because she didn't have any other patients at the moment-- "Let's just get her into a room."

So we moved again, my hands shaking, Rafael's eyes lightless and unreadable. We moved into an empty children's room, rainbows and peppermint candies painted on the walls.

Poor Mickey must have hated the exorbitant attention she received. We laid her on the bed and Jessica took her blood pressure and counted her pulse. I pressed the willow leaves and the burdock pods into her tiny hands. "You have to eat this," I said, surprised to find my voice sounded so steady. "It'll help you feel better."

Mickey squinted. "I don't wanna eat leaves..."

"You have to."

"Does she have a history of health complications?" Jessica asked Rafael. Mickey bit into a soft, spongy burdock pod and winced.

"No," Rafael said. "I mean," he said. "She's got beta-thalassemia--"

"Oh! I bet I know what's going on."

"What?"

"Hang on," Jessica said, "let me see if I can find Aisling."

Rafael looked furious when Jessica left the room. I eased my hand over his arm and held it. She's just doing her job, I thought. She has to fetch the doctor.

It wasn't long, luckily, before Aisling Stout dashed into the room, her gray hair flying behind her.

"I'm here!" she announced, like a torch-bearing superhero. She's always been that way.

"Great," Rafael said, his impatience barely contained. "Then maybe you can tell us what the hell's wrong with our kid."

Aisling read quickly over the chart Jessica had left behind.

"Oh," she said. She paused; she read it again. "She's got thalassemia minor?"

"Didn't I just say that? What the f--"

I grabbed Rafael's arm again. "What's wrong?" I asked Aisling.

"Nothing's 'wrong,' per se. It's just a very tricky disorder. Normally," she went on, "it doesn't cause any problems. It's just that her blood cells are smaller than ordinary. And sometimes this causes a deficiency--"

"So fix it!" Rafael burst out.

"Rafael," I said, alarmed. I didn't want him scaring Mickey.

"Excuse me," Aisling said, sounding testy. "The only way to treat it is a blood transfusion. And unfortunately," she went on, "we're a pretty small reservation; we don't have a blood bank. I have to transfer her to the county hospital."

That could take hours, I realized.

"You can't give her a transfusion here?" I asked.

"Well," she said, "I could, but--"

"Give her mine," Rafael cut in. "My blood. I'm O. And we're both positive, so don't bother with the Rh testing."

Aisling rubbed her forehead. "Look..."

"No, you look," he growled. I was surprised with him; normally he's very respectful of his elders. I guessed he was in as much of a panic as I was. "I just want to take her home, okay? I want to fix her, and I want to take her home. So give her my damn blood."

"I can't," Aisling said, her voice strained. "That's illegal."

For a moment--probably dumbfounded--Rafael said nothing.

"What do you mean?" he finally asked.

"Illegal," I said, my spirits sinking. A part of me had known this was coming. "Federal law says you can't donate blood, Rafael."

He took another moment of silence. I could see the dawning in his eyes, the way light touched their dark depths--an unkind light.

"Because I'm--?"

"Because you're gay," Aisling said bluntly.

"Aisling," I said, and turned to her. "I know that's the law, but the law's very gray where reservations are concerned. You know the FBI can't step in unless it's a Major Crime..."

"Do you want me to risk getting this hospital shut down?" she said. For the first time since I'd known her, she struck me as completely serious.

"If it comes to that," I said, "I'll defend you. You know I will."

She chewed on her thumbnail, lost in thought.

"Oh, fine," she eventually said. "But get out of the room. I've got to cannulate the both of them."

I've always hated that about hospitals--when they're working on you, and you've got your family with you, and suddenly your family gets kicked out of the room while you're going through a tune-up like the Tin Man on an assembly line. Seriously, what's the worst that could happen? They put the needle in the wrong guy? I don't think that's very likely.

In any case, I stepped outside the door and leaned back against the wall. I took a deep breath and ran my hands over my face. And I tried--I really tried--to calm down.

"Skylar? Honey?"

This time it wasn't my sister approaching me, but Robert Has Two Enemies.

If Mrs. Bright and I go way back, then it's only fair to say the same of Robert. He's in his forties; he's been a nurse at the reservation hospital for as long as I can remember.

I had cancer a couple of times as a kid. I'd rather not think about the specifics; there's no use dwelling on the unpleasant past. But Robert--he was there to help me every time.

Robert tsked at me, his clipboard close to his chest. I still think it's weird to see all those age lines on his face. He doesn't look a thing like his sister, Lorna. He's so slender, he'd probably be better suited as a dancer than a nurse.

"Your kid's sick, huh?" he asked.

I smiled, although I didn't particularly feel like it. "Hopefully not for long," I said.

"I know exactly what you mean," he said, and buckled down to tell me a long story. That's the thing about Robert; once he starts talking, you're never quite sure when he'll stop. We sat together on the tiled floor, the wall behind us the color of caramel. "When I started dating Reuben, I had no idea how to deal with his kid. Whiny little brats aren't usually my area of expertise, just ask Mary. And then she got sick one summer--"

"Serafine was sick?" I asked. "I don't remember that."

"Ahem, I'm telling the story here." He swatted at me with his clipboard. "Guess what? It was only measles. I caught it when it was early still and stopped it from spreading. The man's been crazy about me ever since."

I smiled again, amused. "Is there a point to this story?"

"Were you sleeping through the story? Of course there's a point to the story. The point is: I'm wonderful. But the second point is: Don't worry so much! Kids are hardy. If they weren't, we'd all be dead."

I tossed his words about in my head for a while. "Actually," I said, "that makes sense...crazily enough."

"I know it does, sweetheart. I'm older than you. I've seen things you'll never see."

"Unless you mean the inside of a nail salon..."

Aisling poked her head outside the door. "You can come in now," she said. "They're nice and cannulated."

I stood up; Robert stood with me. We went into the cozy little room, and the sight that met my eyes almost cleaved my heart in two: Mickey on the bed, a thin red tube feeding into her arm; Rafael in the chair at her side, her jacket sitting on the arm rest, a cannula taped to Rafael's wrist. I thought it was poignant, in some odd way, that they were connected like this, the apparatus running from Rafael's arm to Mickey's. I thought Mickey looked smaller than her age, and pallid.

"How long?" I asked Aisling, my throat dry.

"It takes about an hour," she said. She folded her hands, her knuckles cracking, distracted. "Normally I wouldn't condone this--at all--but we get screened all the time, so at least I know his blood's safe..."

Robert walked over to the apparatus and immediately started examining the tube that fed between Mickey and Rafael. He whistled with approval. "This baby's called a Tzanck," he told Mickey. "They started using it in World War II when soldiers needed blood in a jiffy. Did you know that?"

Mickey shook her head. I was glad, at least, to see her responding.

"So you know what that means, right? You're a little soldier girl."

Aisling glanced at her wristwatch; she excused herself from the room. "I'll check in on you guys later," Robert told us. "Parents." He winked. He walked out after Aisling, humming a little song.

I drew closer to the bed. "Can I get you anything?" I asked Mickey.

"No," she said. "Is Mini okay?"

"She's fine, honey. She's at home."

"Did this ever happen to you before?" Rafael asked her. "Getting cold, and then going to the hospital?"

"Once," Mickey said. "I got cold and I passed out. I woke up in the hospital. The landlady had found me."

"Why wasn't that on her file?" I asked Rafael, alarmed.

Rafael scowled. "CPS."

Mickey tried to sit up. I rushed to the head of the bed to help her. She flashed me a small smile. Either it was my imagination, or the color was returning to her face.

"You're giving me your blood," Mickey said to Rafael.

"Yeah," Rafael said. Or I think he did. His voice is so guttural, sometimes I don't always catch what he's trying to say.

"I've got your blood in me."

I couldn't tell what was going through Rafael's mind. Not until he smiled--that small, shy, beautiful smile I wish I could frame on our mantelpiece. "Yeah," he said again.

"Mickey," I said.

I reached into my pants pocket. I'd been meaning to give this to her for a long time; I don't know what had stopped me. Insecurity, maybe. Nothing says a grown man can't be insecure.

I took out a small trinket on the end of a thin willow string. A pilot whale crafted from opalescent skink bones.

I couldn't read Mickey's eyes; they steeled, a defense mechanism, when she reached for the pilot whale and took it from my hand. She turned the trinket over in her palm, examining it at every angle.

"I can keep this?" she asked, her voice oddly quiet.

"It's yours," I said.

She slipped the willow string around her wrist. I helped her tie it shut. She lifted her arm--so small, so thin--and inspected the pilot whale in the low light behind her bed.

She glanced discreetly at Rafael's free hand; and at mine. The glass whale and the wood one.

"I want to stay," Mickey said.

I don't think Rafael immediately knew what she was talking about. But I did. My heart swelled and burst with warmth.

"I want to stay with you guys," Mickey said, a little more desperately. "I don't--I don't want to go. No more foster homes, no more skeevy social workers... I'll be good from now on. I won't break windows. I won't look for bears--"

I suddenly understood why she was angry the night of the ghost dance.

"Of course you're staying," Rafael said; and if he was a little too quick, a little too eager, I couldn't blame him for it. Not at all.

I watched the blood flow from Rafael's veins to Mickey's. I watched the color returning to her face.

So this is what it feels like to be a father. To be responsible for another human life. To love someone so much, you almost can't stand it; and when you think about it, there's nothing you want in return.

It feels amazing.

13

Julius

The leaves on the oak trees turned scarlet and persimmon and gold. They tumbled to the ground in gentle, windy waves. The burdock was in bloom beneath the evergreen pines, fuzzy brown pods on the ends of thick, woody stems.

Mickey made a face and pointed out the pods. "They taste like shit," she said. "Just like that guy I got to bite at the ballpark. Can I do that again?"

"No, you absolutely cannot," I said, my palm on the crown of her head.

Mickey giggled. Nothing was going to spoil her mood today. Mine, either. The weak autumn sun peeked out from behind the soft gray clouds. The reservation was alive with families rushing out to the farmland, wicker and willow baskets on their arms.

Rafael and Mickey and I followed the lane down familiar rolling hills. Mini mewled imperially from Mickey's willow basket. I'll let it go this time, I thought. Like I said, my mood was pretty good.

The plains between the ranches and the farms were set up with stalls, tables, and picnic blankets. Aubrey chased his young sons just beyond the iron gates. Reuben and Isaac stood chatting underneath an apple tree, Reuben's arms folded, the tree branches fat with their rosy yield. A group of very old individuals sat in a circle on the ground and sang supplication to the Great Spirit. The Great Spirit was generous in autumn.

"Wow," Mickey said, gazing around the site. "It's like a green festival!"

"It kind of is," I agreed.

We walked among the farm gates, the farmers rolling their pumpkins out onto the grounds. "Can we carve a pumpkin?" Mickey asked. "For Halloween?"

"Why would we do that?" asked a baffled Rafael, who had never celebrated Halloween a day in his life.

I jumped in before Mickey could protest. "Of course we can," I said. "You pick out the one you like."

Mickey wrinkled her nose at Rafael. She traipsed over to the Takes Flights' gates, smart girl that she was. Nicholas waved at her and pointed at the pumpkins on the ground.

A few minutes later and we resumed our walk, Rafael's arms stretched around the gargantuan pumpkin, his face unappreciative and disagreeable.

"Tough," I told him, and smiled.

"I bet the Hopi don't have farms as cool as ours," Mickey said, and skipped along at my side. Mini hissed with disapproval. I don't think she liked being swung that way.

We stopped at different farms and picked the scallions and the kale, the leeks and the onions and the peas. Mini hopped out of Mickey's basket so Mickey could carry potatoes and lima beans. We stopped at Mrs. Siomme's ranch on the other side of the flourmill and Mickey looked worrisomely at the snap beans and the bell peppers standing between the paddock and the cozy barn.

"What's wrong?" I asked Mickey.

"We're running out of room in our baskets..."

"We don't have to pick everything," I told her. I touched the back of her head. "Whatever doesn't get taken, the farmers put it into storage. That way if you need something in the future, you just come back here."

"Are you sure?" Mickey said skeptically. "The food's just gonna stick around?"

I didn't need to be told she had probably grown up without a surplus to eat.

"Come on," I said, and climbed over the wooden paddock fence--with difficulty. When did I gain so much weight? "We've got enough room. Let's take some apples."

The cows and the horses grazed lazily on the other side of Mrs. Siomme's fence. Rafael set the pumpkin down and wheezed. I led Mickey to a lush apple tree and pointed out the knots in the bark. She climbed--expertly--and knocked the thick fruit off the branches. I stuffed them into one of our empty baskets.

"Why don't you guys pick up some honey, too?" Mrs. Siomme asked.

Mrs. Siomme belongs to the tribal council. She and Dad have been friends since before I was born. Just looking at her, you can't help but feel calm. She exudes calm; she speaks calm. I've never known her not to smile.

Her brown hair was flecked with gray; the lines around her eyes could have been laugh lines just as easily as wrinkles.

"Honey?" Mickey asked, when she shimmied back down the tree. Mini leapt and batted at the tall blades of grass.

Mrs. Siomme showed Mickey to the red maple tree on the other side of the paddock, its full, dagger-shaped leaves a shade of luscious crimson. Mrs. Siomme took a matchbook out of her jeans pocket. I knew what came next; the smoke from the match would lull the bees to sleep, and Mrs. Siomme would pluck the honeycomb right out of their hive.

Rafael's arm snaked around my hips. He leaned against me, comfortably, and a kind of peace washed over me, an unprecedented peace I didn't even recognize by sight.

"Our daughter is awesome," he said. "And kickass."

"She must get that from me," I mused.

I felt his mouth on the crook of my neck, his lips parted in a grin. I grabbed a handful of his shirt. I shoved his shoulder.

"Ass," he said.

"Oh, no," I said. "Henry Siomme, ten o'clock."

"Where?"

I pointed at the paddock fence closed to the silo. The charming little monster hopped the wooden gate, his ponytail bobbing behind him. He strode over to his mother and Mickey, his hands in his back pockets, a friendly smile on his face. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he gestured at one of the mares.

"Oh, no," I said again.

"He's gonna kidnap her by horseback," Rafael whispered; he sounded stricken, like we had already lost her.

Mickey trundled over to us through the grass. I felt Mini brush against my ankle. Perhaps we were fighting on the same side of the war this time.

"Sky," Mickey said. "Rafael. Can I ride a horse with Henry?"

I watched the internal dilemma play out across Rafael's face. He was a boy once. He didn't trust boys. He knew all about the inner workings of their devious minds. But if he denied her--would she sulk? Would she be sad? And really, how can you deny that sweet little face?

I pat Rafael on the back; he started. "Sure you can," I said to Mickey. "But make sure you hold onto him very tightly."

"What?" Rafael demanded.

"Rafael, she's ten."

Mickey gave Rafael a weird look. She shrugged as an afterthought and loped back to Henry. Henry whispered to her and the two of them ran to the barn.

"A woman's heart can't be tamed," Mrs. Siomme told us gravely. She tucked the sticky honeycomb into my basket and sent us on our way with pats to our shoulders.

Rafael and I trailed off the ranch and out to the countryside. We found his family sitting under a smoke tree. Have you ever seen one of those? They're pretty amazing: Tall and spiny, trunks the shade of bronze, spindled branches covered in soft, blurry, ashen gray leaves.

"Where's Grandma Gives Light?" I asked. I sat down between Mary and Charity.

"She's over there singing with the old folks," Charity said kindly. She pointed at the distant circle of elderly Shoshone. They slapped their hands against their hand drums and sang Yepani Hupia. "Our autumn, our rebirth," they sang in Shoshone. "The sun is heading south." They were so stern about it, so particular, they sounded to me as though they were on the warpath.

We lit a small kindling fire and roasted apples beneath the smoke tree. Like flies to honey, Zeke Owns Forty came racing over.

"Hey!" he said, and sat down. It wasn't long before Holly shuffled after him, looking sullen. She always looks sullen. One month to go before they married. I guess that's a reason to look sullen right there.

"Zeke," I said, "you mentioned something about a homestudy?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. He helped himself to an apple and bit noisily into the soft flesh. Charity winced politely. "I can write one up today if you want." Juice dribbled down his chin. "So you're gonna adopt her, huh? I'll bring the papers by later!"

"Rafael," Gabriel said, in his "I'm about to impart some wisdom" voice. "I've watched you grow from a boy to a man. And I'm very proud of you--"

"A boy to a man?" Mary cut in. "I don't remember this mythical man we're talking about. Are you sure we lived in the same house?"

"Mary!" Rafael said through his teeth.

"P.S., your kid's screwed," Mary said cheerfully.

"Oh, they've had her for some months now," Charity said. "And she seems to be alive still. Mary, may your little sister have a roasted apple?"

"Only if you go dancing."

"Dancing" in Shoshone is a euphemism for sudden death. I've got to assume that's what Mary was trying to say.

"I notice you didn't think to adopt a kid," Holly said to Mary.

"Damn right I didn't. What would I want with a kid? I can't be bothered feeding it and cleaning up after it."

"You sound like you're talking about a dog," Annie said, when she came over and sat with us, Elizabeth and Celia in her arms.

"Same difference. But really, Little Hawk, you're getting knocked up all the time. It's kind of like you're making up for my deficit!"

"Yes, Mary," Annie said. "I get pregnant just so you don't have to."

Dad and Racine were the next to join our happy little circle, Dad's arms wrapped around a sizable pumpkin. Dad likes jack-o-lanterns almost as much as he likes cats. Rafael threw him a look of sympathy and the pair of them sat down on the sparse brown grass.

"I can't wait to visit the Hopi," Racine said. She cackled and clapped her hands. "They hand out all that piki bread. I don't have to do any baking for months..."

"I don't remember you ever baking," Dad murmured. Racine shot him a warning look and he shrank in apology.

I heard hooves cantering down the country lane. I looked up and saw Mickey and Henry astride the chestnut mare, the reins in Henry's hands. Henry pulled the mare to a placid stop; he climbed off the saddle and helped Mickey down from the stirrups. Rafael was as alert as a watchdog, inspecting Mickey for bumps and bruises.

"Guys!" Face flushed bright, excitement in her eyes, Mickey dashed over to us. "That was so cool! We rode around the farms, and the canals, and even by the badlands--"

"The badlands?" Rafael said. "I'll kill him--"

"I'm fine," Mickey said. And I joined in: "She's in one piece, isn't she?" And Charity chewed on an apple and waved at her.

"Horses are so cool," Mickey said, and sat down with us. "I want to take care of horses when I grow up."

I saw Dad smiling at her, feeble though his smile was. "You know," he said. "Before we had horses, we used to train wolves to do their work."

"Wolves?" Mickey said, her eyes wide.

"He's right, actually," Gabriel chimed in, cheerful as could be. "There weren't any horses in America until the Spanish came along. So that's...what, late 1500s? Early 1600s?"

"And oftentimes," Dad said, "when we were traveling the Plains, we had a very heavy load to bring with us. And we couldn't carry it ourselves. So we built sleds."

"And you tied wolves to the sleds?" Mickey asked.

"It started with a litter of wolf pups," Dad said. "It's been said that many years ago, the chief of the tribe, Twice a Mother, found newborn wolves whose parents had been killed by bears."

"Stupid bears," Mickey grumbled.

"Twice a Mother raised the helpless wolves to adulthood. And because wolves are very impressionable when they're young, they got along quite well with the humans who had reared them. And although most people nowadays will tell you that wolves can't be tamed, that's actually not true. The trick is that wolves prefer to talk with their eyes, not their ears. They don't want you giving them verbal commands like 'Sit,' 'Stay,' 'Roll over,' the way a dog does. And because we Plains People knew sign language before anyone else did--"

"Really?" Mickey asked.

"Yes, we invented it," Dad said.

"Not you," I said, and threw him an impish little smile.

Dad colored. He'd never understood sign language, though not for lack of trying; he was, as he insisted, a very poor learner. "Anyway," he said. "It was because of sign language that we could communicate with the wolves. So we harnessed the wolves to our sleds, and they pulled the sleds for us across the Great Plains with ease. And our children would sit atop the sleds and watch the terrain pass them by. We called it bia'isa-soto--'wolf-drag.' "

"That sounds like so much fun..." Mickey said.

"You know what?" Racine said. "Skylar raised a coywolf."

Mickey turned on me. "You did?"

I smiled sheepishly. "When he was a baby."

"Where is he now?"

"He grew up and passed away. But his pups still come around the house every now and then. Maybe you'll meet them sometime."

At the words "passed away," Mickey looked warily around. She scooped Mini onto her lap and stroked the back of her head.

We went home around noon and Mickey sat at the kitchen table, scribbling a goofy face onto the pumpkin with a thick, black marker. Carole stopped by with the addresses of legislators from Delaware. I don't know why that girl can't just e-mail me.

"Want to make honey with us, Carole?" I asked. "You can take some home with you."

Carole sputtered. "Um..."

I cleaned off the kitchen counter. Carole and Mickey and I washed our hands--Rafael sat boorishly at the table, reading a book--and scraped the wax off the honeycomb. We crushed the comb with our fingers.

"Here," Mickey said, and threw the wax at Carole's shoulder. Carole screamed.

By night, Rafael and Mickey and I settled down in the sitting room and listened to a serial on the radio. Dinner was in a couple of hours, but for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel remotely like leaving the house. I wasn't sure about Rafael--he falls into a foul, black mood if you keep him indoors for too long--but then that's why we built the sitting room with such airy windows: to keep his temper at bay.

"Hey," Rafael said to Mickey. "Wanna see something?"

"Sure," Mickey said. She set Mini on the floor and padded over to Rafael's armchair. Curiosity got the better of me; I looked over, too.

Rafael pushed his sleeve up to his elbow. He pulled the pilot whale bracelet out of the way. That was when I saw the new tattoo on his wrist. Just one word: Mickey.

"Well, that's..." Mickey started, but never finished.

"You've got my blood in you," Rafael said, "and now I've got your name on me."

"And you've got Sky's name, too. I saw it on your neck." Mickey turned on me. "And you've got freckles, just like me."

"I do," I said, and smiled.

"It's like we're really a family!" Mickey exclaimed. She instantly blushed.

"I like the sound of that," I said. If I smiled any harder, maybe my face would crack in half. "A family. Don't you?"

Rafael picked up his book and pretended to read. I knew better.

"I never had a dad before," Mickey said. She toyed casually with the hem of her red sleeve. Oh, did I know better.

Mickey looked up when she thought it was safe, peeking between her fringe.

"So...it would be kind of cool to have two dads," she said.

"I wouldn't know," I said. "But I'd have to agree with you."

Rafael closed his book. Why was he trying to hide his smile? I swear, the only way those two could be more alike is if she had sprung from his loins.

"M'gonna make dinner," Rafael announced.

"Oh, God, no," I said.

Mickey burst into delighted little giggles. She settled down next to me on the sofa. "We should have the fire department on speed dial," she told me.

"First we need a phone," I said seriously.

Rafael scowled at the both of us and trudged into the kitchen. That was when I heard a knock on the front door.

"Huh," said Mickey, puzzled. "Do you think Carole came back for more honey?"

"Maybe she came back so you'd throw the wax at her again," I said. I stood up and headed into the front room, Mickey following me.

I swung open the front door and found Zeke standing on the other side, a stack of papers clutched in his hands.

"Zeke," I said warmly. I stepped back to let him in. "Why did you knock?" In Nettlebush, you never knock on a friend's door. You just walk right in.

Zeke walked right past me. I thought he looked a little preoccupied. Maybe he had had another fight with Holly. I closed the door.

"Is Rafael around?" he asked.

Rafael stuck his head out through the kitchen door. "You wanna stick around for hotbread?" he asked Zeke.

"I love hotbread," Mickey piped up.

"Wasn't talking to you, brat."

"Bite me, moron."

"Guys," Zeke said.

By now I was starting to worry. I've known Zeke since I was a kid. I know when something's wrong with him.

"Mickey," I said, "why don't you listen to the rest of the radio show, and you can tell us how it ends?"

Mickey saw right through me. You can't fool that kid. "You're trying to get rid of me," she said.

"Just for a little while," I admitted.

"Fine," she said. She slouched back into the sitting room. I heard her turn up the volume on the radio.

Zeke followed me into the kitchen where Rafael was--unskillfully--cutting up chili peppers. Rafael tucked his hair behind his ear and looked up at our arrival.

"What?" Rafael said.

"I've got the papers you need," Zeke said, his eyes bouncing from floor to wall to window. He laughed nervously, his hyena's laugh. "But uh..."

"What, Zeke?" I asked quietly.

"I got a fax from CPS," Zeke said. "Her mother gets out of prison next month."

There was a moment during which none of us spoke. A moment during which I could hear Whacky Bob's voice trilling through the room from the children's radio station: "Gee, Gus, that sure looks like a pickle to me..."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," I said. "She was convicted three years ago, wasn't she?"

"Yeah," Zeke said.

"And she only served three years? After trying to kill her own daughter?"

"She didn't go to jail for attempted murder, man. She went in for aggravated assault."

Momentarily, I closed my eyes. Class 5 aggravated assault's only a three-year sentence.

Three years for nearly murdering your own daughter. Not bad.

"She stabbed a seven-year-old in the chest," Rafael said. I could hear the anger quavering in his thick voice.

Zeke shrugged. "I don't make the law. I don't even practice the law. I'm just telling you what they told me, okay?"

"All the same," I said. "It doesn't matter whether her mother gets out a month from now or a year from now. CPS terminated her parental rights."

Another silence. I was starting to like these silences less and less.

"Zeke," I said.

"We did terminate her parental rights," he said quickly. "But she's looking to reinstate them."

"She can't," Rafael said at once.

"Look," Zeke said, and raised his hands. "I'm on your side! I've always been on your side. We go way back. But adoption laws always favor the biological parents. I don't make the law--I told you that--"

"Zeke," I said. My voice sounded strangled to me. "This woman tried to kill Michaela."

"I know that. But she says she didn't..."

"Zeke, you can't let them do this to us."

"I'm not," Zeke said. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm on your side? I'm going to testify on your behalf--"

"Testify?" Rafael said bleakly.

Zeke straightened the lapels of his jacket. Not that it did much to improve his appearance. He's always been a slob. A hyena wearing a business suit is still a hyena.

"Mrs. Morales doesn't have any rights over her daughter right now," Zeke said. "To get them back, she has to petition a judge. If she wants Michaela, and you want Michaela, you'll have to go to family court and fight it out."

My stomach turned. I hated family court. I wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the place. It's an absolute nightmare--the moment you step inside, the vigor drains right out of your heart.

"She can't take Michaela," I said. I was beside myself with disbelief. I was about ready to throw up. Rafael must have seen that, because he moved closer to me, and he gripped my hand. "She'll hurt her again. She could kill her..."

"I know," Zeke said. "Believe me, I know. And I'm going to mention it in my homestudy. So just...calm down, okay? This isn't a bad thing!" Oh, it wasn't, was it? "It just means we've got a ways to go! We're not going to lose this!"

"I'll kill her," Rafael swore. "I'll kill her before I let her touch Michaela."

"Rafael," I said. The last thing I wanted was to worry about the both of them.

"Hey," Zeke said, chuckling nervously. "Actually, if you kill her outside the rez, and you come back here, they can't prosecute you for it, so..."

"Zeke," I said, and closed my eyes again, "please don't encourage him."

Zeke left us a little while later. The milk, the eggs, and the chili peppers stood abandoned on the kitchen counter. Neither Rafael nor I could think much about dinner right now.

"What do we tell Mickey?" Rafael muttered. I almost didn't hear him.

"Nothing," I said. I massaged my temples. "We're not going to worry her with this."

"But--"

"We're not going to let her mother take her away," I said. "Even if we have to get creative. Are you forgetting when we were teenagers? That whole year we spent thwarting the government?"

Rafael frowned. "But we lost," he said. "They got your dad in the end. They got what they wanted."

I thought about Dad in a prison cell, shriveled, aging, fighting for his life. A part of him was missing now. I knew it, no matter how well he feigned otherwise. A shudder traveled through me.

For the most part, I thought we held up a pretty good pretense at normalcy. I finished making the hotbread and Mickey was chatty and agreeable throughout dinner. "Mr. Siomme's taking us to the badlands tomorrow," she said. "He's going to show us where the coal comes from." Mini climbed in through the kitchen window--I don't remember her going outside to begin with--and I slid the window closed. Already it was getting very chilly outside.

I was chilly when we went to bed that night. I could hear Mickey's door snapping shut down the hall. I peeled the bedcovers back and tried to settle down.

"You're freezing," Rafael said, when we lay together.

"I don't know why," I said. "The hearth's warm."

"Don't give me that," he said, and put his arm around me. He pulled me close to his body, the warmth of him heating me from the outside in.

"She can't," I said. My fingers tangled in his t-shirt. "She can't take Michaela from us. She can't hurt her..."

"I'm not going to let that happen," Rafael told me.

I was silent. He went on.

"You remember when you were in foster care?" Rafael said. "And CPS gave you to that couple that wanted to adopt you?"

"Yes," I said, and thought about Danny, Marilu's friend.

"I came looking for you, right?"

I smiled, if only a little. "You certainly did."

"You remember how you you couldn't talk for twenty-two years? So I read all those boring books--"

"I've never heard you call a book boring before," I realized.

"--shut up, Sky, and figured out how to put your vocal cords back together? You remember that?"

"Well," I said, and I couldn't help it if I teased. "Considering I'm talking to you right now..."

"I'm always gonna protect you. And I'm always gonna protect that little girl. There's no way in hell I'll let that woman get her hands on her."

"Rafael," I said.

"Yeah?"

"You are the most wonderful person I've ever known."

It took him a moment to answer me--and when he did, I thought he sounded bashful.

"I'd better be," he said. "Because, you know. That's what you deserve."

I smiled. "Thank you."

"Stop thanking me."

"Are you sure?"

"Is the door locked?"

"You lock it. I can't get up. I'm the fat one."

"You're not that fat..."

"But I'm not that skinny..."

"How is it thanking me if I'm doing all the work?"

"Aren't you usually doing all the work anyway?"

After careful deliberation, and much well-delivered oration (of various sorts), the problem seemed to settle itself. And I must say that the results were very satisfactory. I professed my gratitude not once, but twice, and Rafael was graciously receptive both times, which ought to have surprised me because we're not exactly spring chickens, he and I. I took his enthusiasm for a compliment. And he swallowed me up in his arms, the same as every night; and somehow, I thought, that was my favorite part of all.

I drifted off to sleep with my head on his chest, his fingers buried in my hair. And I probably would have slept a dreamless sleep--if not for the reservation pager ringing loudly on the floor.

"Go'way Mary," Rafael mumbled, half asleep. His arm swung out and smacked me in the face.

"Ow," I said. I stumbled out of bed. Whose pager was beeping? I dug through our discarded pants pockets on the floor.

Mine, by the looks of it. A simple message glowed through the darkness, stamped across the small, digital screen.

where is your father?

Racine. Racine couldn't find my father?

I considered, for a moment, how I ought to reply. Obviously Racine thought there was a good chance Dad was with me. I didn't want to panic her by saying, "I don't know."

he's on his way home, I wrote back. It wasn't necessarily a lie. Not if I could find him.

I glanced back at Rafael on the bed. Sound asleep. That man could sleep through a hydrogen bomb, I'm telling you.

I dressed quickly--not entirely sure whose clothes I was pulling on--and stuffed the pager in my back pocket. I kissed Rafael's cheek, partially to see whether he would wake up and partially because I just felt like it.

A hydrogen bomb, I am not. He slept on, unperturbed. I slipped out the door.

The reservation was cold by night. Of course I hadn't thought to bring a jacket with me. I very rarely think that far ahead. The wind whipped my curls about my face, cold air stinging my eyes. The moon was full as it rained down on the forest path, guiding my way to the cluster of houses just beyond the beech trees.

Truthfully, I had no idea where I was going. I didn't even know whether Dad was still on the reservation. When I was very young, he used to go drinking at night; sometimes I wouldn't see him for two and three days at a time. Now that I was older I understood he wasn't really getting drunk at those dive joints. He was collecting information on Rafael's runaway father.

The first place I checked for Dad was our old house, the one in the north of the reservation. Not my grandmother's house; my mother's house.

The house was in shambles. Shoshone always abandon a house where a death occurred; they're not allowed to rip it down, or give it away to another family. Out front was what might have been a garden once, sanctioned off by worn and peeling gates. The planters beneath the dust-laden windows were faded and crumbling. The vines tangling up the west-facing side were as thick as jungle growth.

I pushed open the swollen, bloated door. Beyond the doorway was darkness.

"Dad?" I called out. I didn't feel like going inside. That house was the scene of too much heartache.

I called for Dad a couple more times, but without any response. Finally I conceded that he had to be elsewhere.

I closed the aged door carefully. I started the trek south.

Granny's house was in much better shape than my mother's, but it stood abandoned, just like its counterpart to the north. Granny had died here--unexpectedly, in her sleep. A headstrong, ornery old woman, she probably wouldn't have moved into a wickiup even if the Wolf himself came strolling out of the woods and advised her to do it.

I climbed the steps to the front porch. Nostalgia gripped my heart tightly, painfully, and wouldn't let go. This was the house I had grown up in. This was where I had met my grandmother and my heritage, where I had learned about my family, where I had met my first friends. This was home in a way that no other house could be.

I eased the door open and glanced inside. Moonlight streaming through the front room windows. The closet door ajar.

I stepped inside the old home, overpowered with its unfamiliar, musty scent. When did it start smelling like that? It's like the house just knew its caretaker had passed away, so it had relinquished its own spirit, too.

Granny's quiltwork still hung on the wall above the mantel. Oh, I wanted to touch it. I wanted to brush it with my fingers and remember the aged fingers that had brought it to life, the woman I loved more than life itself. The back door stood locked, much as it had been even in life. The staircase to the right of the house--the stairs I had climbed up countless times on my way to bed, or a late night rendezvous with Rafael...

"Dad?" I called out.

No response.

The chill of the empty home took me in a vicegrip, the hearth empty and black. The hearth Balto used to climb into as a coywolf pup. The hearth Granny and Dad and I had sat before on so many occasions while Granny told us her favorite stories, or taught me the songs of the Plains.

And then I noticed something on the mantelpiece I'd never noticed before.

I drew closer, tentative. I reached for the object--the picture frame. My uncle Julius stared back at me from the weathered snapshot, his eyes big and brown, his five-year-old smile big and toothy.

I have brown eyes, too.

And then I noticed something else about the photograph--

No filmy dust sitting on the glass frame.

Somebody had been here before me.

I started out the front door with haste. Suddenly I knew where Dad had gone for the night.

The graveyard behind the little white church stood gray and desolate unto a howling autumn night. The loose black gates creaked and slapped in the wind. Rafael used to be afraid of this place when we were kids. He'll deny it with all his heart, but take him out here sometime when it's dark out. Watch how fast he wants to leave.

I walked between the rows of uniform headstones. Everyone who's ever lived in Nettlebush is buried in this graveyard. Over the years we've had to extend the territory out into the western woods. It was a very small plot of land to begin with.

I found Dad sitting on the ground, cross-legged. I crouched down and sat with him. I read the gravestone before his water-gray eyes.

"Julius Looks Over. 1966 - 1971. Our children have a wisdom all their own."

Dad drew a deep, rattling breath. "Everything that ever went wrong in my life...it started with him."

I placed my hand on Dad's knee.

Do you know what blood law is? For the longest time, it was the only real "law" the Plains People had to their name.

When one man kills another without reason, the family of his victim is entitled to take his life in return. It's not really about retribution. It's about the souls of the departed. The departed will wander the earth as ghosts, scared and confused, unless the man who took their life is laid to rest. That way he can't take any other lives. That way men who might follow in his example will think twice.

"He can't rest..." Dad said.

I jolted. "He's beneath the soil," I said. "He's home."

"No, Skylar. Everything that's gone wrong..."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "You think Uncle Julius laid a curse on you?" I asked.

"Not intentionally. He was too good of a child. He would never... These things come about. There's a balance to the world, to every life on the planet. When that balance is disrupted..."

"Dad," I said wildly. "Don't. Don't you dare start talking like this..."

"I ought to have died," Dad said. "When I took his life, I ought to have died, too."

He looked me in the eye. His eyes were unnaturally pale in the moonlight. For a moment I thought: He's the specter. He's the one who's been wandering the earth, scared and confused.

"Okay, Dad," I said. Was my voice wavering? I couldn't help it. "Okay. So you should have died when you were ten? Then what?" I could see he was about to interrupt me, so I kept talking. "Then I never would have known you."

"You would have grown up with your mother," Dad said. "Because she never would have met me. She never would have moved to the reservation. You never would have lost your voice. Your mother would still be alive today."

"I wouldn't have my father," I said. "My real father," I said. I didn't care to know who my biological father was. "I never would have known my grandmother. Or Marilu, or Aunt Cora and Aunt Melissa..."

"You would have your mother," he said. In his voice was conviction. He wouldn't hear otherwise. "Your mother would still be alive--"

"I don't want my mother!" I snapped.

It's not like me. It's really not like me. Even before I had a voice I never used to express myself when I was angry. On principle, I don't like anger. It's too much of a waste of energy.

I was angry now.

"I don't want my mother," I went on. My voice was shaking; I could hear it. But I wasn't quite yelling. There are still some things my vocal cords just don't know how to do. "I want my father. If you hadn't raised me, how do I know I would even be myself? Why would you take that away from me? You know something else, Dad?" He didn't interrupt me. "If you had died when you were ten years old, I never would have come to live on the reservation. I never would have met Annie and Aubrey, and Zeke--"

"You never would have lost your voice," he said. "I never would have taken you to therapy. That woman never would have touched you--"

"I never would have met Rafael."

"You'd have a different family--"

"I want this family."

Dad looked up at me; and in that moment, I was sure, I was positive, that he had never considered how happy I was just being his son.

"Nobody gets a perfect life, Dad," I said. "If my mother had raised me instead of you... What? You don't know that I would have been happy with her. And even if I was, does that mean I never would have been sad at some point? You're not really that naive, are you? Dad?"

"Your voice..."

"I like my voice just fine, but if growing up with you has taught me anything, it's that I don't need one. I don't need a voice to be happy. I just need you. You," I said, "and Rafael, and Michaela. And my brother and my sister, while we're at it. And my stepmother, because she may be a terrible cook, but damn it, she can shoot a gun."

To my amazement, Dad began to laugh.

"I must have done something right," he said. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. I didn't believe for a second that I had swayed him, but maybe--maybe this was a start. "Raising you, I mean. You're a very funny kid."

I smiled at him. "Not a kid anymore, Dad."

He hesitated. "I know," he said.

I reached for his hand and found it. I grasped it tightly.

"If you had died when you were ten," I said, "just think. Eli might never have been caught. I don't know about you, but I'm positive he would have taken more than seven lives. Maybe not my mother's... But Rebecca Takes Flight? Naomi Owns Forty? Mercy In Winter?"

Dad's eyes were difficult to read. He's always been like that. He's always existed on a different plane from me.

"And if you were to die today..." My throat felt dry. I swallowed. It didn't help. "You'd miss out on a lot of ball games and shinny tournaments. Christmas parties and New Year's gifts. And your granddaughter..."

His eyes widened, just slightly.

"How do you know she won't want to get married someday? Maybe she'll want her grandfather there to see it."

"My granddaughter," Dad said. "I had no idea..."

"She's decided to stay with us," I said.

"Ah," Dad said. A faint smile glimmered on his face. "Very gracious of her..."

"Of course. She's our little princess."

"I heard about her health scare..."

"It's fine now. We've been feeding her a lot of sugar, if you can believe it."

"That's very smart."

For a while, neither of us said a word, the night wind speaking in our place. Dad reached out and touched Julius' name on the headstone. His eyes sealed closed.

"I've always wondered what kind of a person he would have grown up to be... Maybe we would have been friends, he and I. Maybe he could have taken care of you while I was looking for Eli. Would he have married? Had children? I don't know... I knew a small and smiling baby. I never knew the real Julius. He never got to..."

"I think," I said, "he would have been a terrific man. A very good judge of character."

Dad looked up at me. His lips tilted into a wry half-smile. That's how he is, my Dad. He never lets himself smile completely.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Because he loved you," I said. "That's a pretty good judgment call, if you ask me."

14

Why the Star Stands Still

"Whose car is this?" Rafael asked gruffly.

The SUV parked outside the hospital was streaked in gold paint and stamped with bright, floral stencils. It was probably the most hideous thing I'd ever seen.

"Mine," said Serafine Takes Flight, and she wandered past us, keys in hand. "Get in."

Rafael and I exchanged questionable looks.

"Cool," Mickey said. She pushed past us and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Uh, no," Rafael said harshly. "Get in the back with Charity and Nick."

"But...!"

"And put your seatbelt on. What, you think I was born yesterday?"

"Something like that," Mickey mumbled, and unwillingly changed seats.

There were eight of us in one car on the ride to the Black Mountain Reservation. "It's a few hours away," I told Mickey," so sit tight." She straightened out her regalia and stuck her tongue out at me. Serafine and Jessica sat chatting in the front seats over the country radio station--I don't know what women talk about among themselves; bras, probably. DeShawn sat with Rafael and me in the middle row and nattered about some military initiative he was starting up with Annie. "We've got to have jobs lined up for them when they get out of the service. Now, Stuart and Siobhan set up that clinic at Bear River, so I was thinking--" And in the very back of the SUV, Nicholas was at his most disagreeable yet. "Why am I stuck with girls?" he asked. "Girls don't know how to hold a stimulating conversation." I gave him credit for knowing the word "stimulating," but it probably wasn't the best declaration to make in a car full of women. "Ow! Mickey pinched me!" Case in point.

"Mickey," I said crossly.

"What?" she returned. "You said I couldn't bite, you didn't say I couldn't pinch..."

It was around dusk when we arrived at the Black Mountain Reservation. The sky was a rich blue, the clouds scorched black. Serafine parked us on a caked and muddy stretch of land just outside the reservation gates. We climbed out, the eight of us; Mickey looked around with awe, her arms around a boxed pumpkin pie. I wasn't sure whether the pie had come out right. It looked kind of goopy to me when we took it out of the oven.

"It's cold here," Mickey said.

"That's why you're wearing a jacket," I returned.

We walked between the smoking little houses, past a library--Rafael's eyes glued to its door in longing--and past the town center's water well. How picturesque looked the ground, strewn haphazardly with burnt brown and dawn-yellow leaves. How proud were the tall maples, the aspens and the hickories.

Rafael nudged Mickey. "You know something," he said. "The colors you see on trees in the autumn--those are their natural colors. Leaves are brown and yellow and red by default. They only turn green when they've taken in a lot of sunlight. So really, a tree turns color in spring, not autumn."

"They should always look this way," Mickey said.

"But then you wouldn't enjoy it as much," I said. "Too much of a good thing can be a bad thing."

We walked through the town and out to the pauwau grounds. A wide open area at the bottom of the black mountain, farms visible in the misty distance.

"There you are," Dad said, when he and Racine met up with us. He looked ten years younger, fresh-faced and alive. He hadn't been to Black Mountain in a very many years. Maybe now that he was back here, he finally understood he had his life back.

He whispered: "The Hopi are about to start their butterfly dance."

Mickey looked up at me. "Butterfly dance? Is it like our shawl dance?"

"Sort of," I told her. I tweaked her nose. "It's their version of the story. The butterfly's first flight."

The Hopi women danced like light spring blossoms fluttering in the wind. I still don't know how they manage to look so weightless in the heavy layers of their regalia. Have you ever seen a Hopi woman's traditional hairstyle? The way she takes her long, flowing hair and twists and winds it into two whorls on either side of her head? They call it squash blossoms. It's one of the most impressive things I've ever seen--but certainly topheavy.

The solemn dance reached its end. Everybody applauded politely. Mickey's eyes were fixed to the peak of the black mountain.

"I want to climb it," Mickey said.

I looked to Rafael. He looked back at me, at a loss.

"I think shepherds live up there, hon," I said.

"Can't I climb it?" Mickey asked. "Please? I just want to see what it looks like from up there. If the shepherds yell at me to go away, I will. Please?"

I took the pie from her while I thought about it. Grandma Gives Light hobbled along and snatched the box from my arms in turn. "Mary!" she yelled, and kept walking.

"We'll climb it together," I said. I didn't want her out of my sight.

"What're we climbing?" Racine asked.

"The Black Mountain," Rafael said. "You wanna?"

There's a reason the Hopi call it the Black Mountain. The mountainside sheened with a faint black undertone, mysterious and foreboding. On my own, I probably wouldn't have braved it. But then, I'm not a very brave person.

We started up the mountainside, Rafael, Mickey, and I, Dad close behind us, Racine along with him. I wasn't sure whether DeShawn and Jessica followed us until I heard Jessica say: "Why are you so slow, Shawny? You need to exercise more."

Climbing wasn't really a difficult task. A smooth, beaten path curled and coiled up the mountainside, cutting through the craggy rocks and the sharp shrubs. Up here it was easier to discern that the "black" of the mountain was really just the dark foliage of shady evergreen trees. Scary from a distance; not so scary up close.

"I can't go on!" DeShawn said, mopping his face.

"What do you mean?" Jessica said. "We're not even halfway up!"

"Yes, Jess, but it's a big mountain..."

Jessica shook her head. "What would Autumn Rose say?"

"She'd say that I had better conserve my energy. And then she would give me a plate of apple dumplings."

"Keep it up and you'll be as fat as Skylar."

"I can hear you, you know," I said.

With an apology, DeShawn started back down the mountain; and Jessica, who didn't trust him to be left to his own devices, trailed after him. The rest of us kept going. I could hear a dog barking somewhere to the west of us. "Bet the shepherd's watchbox isn't far," I said.

"How far do you actually wanna climb?" Rafael asked Mickey, sounding dubious.

Mickey didn't say. She stopped every now and then, peering about the beaten path; she climbed higher, higher still, until finally the path came to an abrupt stop.

"I need to take a break," Dad wheezed, and sat on a boulder next to the path's end.

"Old man," Racine joked, and sat with him.

"It's very nice up here," I said. "Isn't it?"

Rafael grunted. "Not as nice as the badlands."

Mickey stood on the very edge of the coiling path, worrying me. Here the mountainside was cut steeply, hanging high above the reservation like a bastion at the height of war. Mickey's hair tossed around her little face in the rough winds, the fringe around her elbows dancing like prairie grass.

"Come back a little farther," I called to her, and reached for her arm. If she fell... I couldn't bear it if she fell.

She didn't fall. But her eyes were fixed on the horizon; and when I followed her gaze, I saw why. The trees below the mountain were pinpricks of color on a seamless, rippling canvas. The pale roofs of the houses looked like warm blankets tossed across a child's bed; the puffing of the smoke from the chimneys was the rising and falling of slumbering chests. And that beautiful sky, richest, royal blue, was already lit with the roaming stars of the night.

"I know why the star stands still," Mickey said.

I let go of her arm; and at the same time, Rafael pulled her back against his chest. I understood why. He was afraid she would fall. All parents are afraid their children will fall; whether from mountainsides, or from willow trees. Funny how I never thought about that before.

15

A Child At Heart

"You sure that's legal, though?" Rafael asked.

I met up with Rafael on the ramp outside the reservation hospital. It's still surreal whenever I see him in those sea-green hospital scrubs, especially when his tattoos are poking out from under the collar and sleeves.

"It's not," I said. "Not at all. But if it works, we won't have to go to court. So at least let me try it."

He ran his hand through the back of his hair, something he only ever does when he's distracted. I couldn't remember whether his hair was clean. Hygiene's not his first priority, that Rafael.

"Could you get in trouble if it doesn't work?"

"No," I said. "Not if I choose my words carefully."

"Well," Rafael said, "you always choose your words carefully." He grunted. "Too carefully."

Maybe that's true. I try not to squander my words. For a long time, I didn't have any. I don't know that I'll ever just blurt out my thoughts the way so many people do. I'll always envy them for it, though.

I lifted my hand and waved goodbye. Rafael gave me a smile--rare as they are, they're always like a gift--and skulked inside the hospital.

I was taking Racine's car today, a squashed, neon green Buick way past its shelf life. I don't know if I've mentioned this, but Shoshone ideas about property and wealth are vastly different from the model the western world relies on. To Shoshone, it's completely outrageous to suggest ownership over something everyone's entitled to--like land, food, medicine, even transportation, now that we're living in the 21st century. Consequently you'll often run into Shoshone who don't own their own houses or cars, but share with their neighbors instead. I don't own a car. If I need one, I borrow one from someone else. It's not like I leave the reservation very often, anyway.

The ride to Maricopa County took a few hours--partially, I thought, because I was so terrible at directions. I'm surprised I didn't drive right out of the state. I pulled up to the penitentiary and tried to remind myself to fill up the tank before heading back to the reserve.

I don't know what to say about the women's prison complex. When I first saw it, I thought I was looking at a church. Maybe that's intentional; I can't say. I parked Racine's car by the curb. A walkway flanked by palm trees and benches led to the double glass doors; the roof was flat, but the triangular white eaves made me think of a steeple nonetheless. The main building was connected to what appeared to be some kind of health clinic. Later I would learn that the entire complex used to belong to a hospital until they revamped it in the 70's.

I headed tentatively through the visitors' entrance. The long reception desk stood to one side, unmanned. On the other side were booths with bulletproof windows. I smothered my discomfort. Maybe this wasn't a federal prison, but it sure wasn't a walk in the park, either.

At length the receptionist came back to her station. I guessed maybe I had caught her just around her lunch break. Her hair was very curly, very poofy--one of those retro beehive styles I hadn't seen in ages. She looked surprised to see me.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. She shuffled quickly through a stack of folders on her desk. "I didn't think we had any visitors scheduled today..."

Maybe it's silly of me, but I immediately felt sorry for the inmates. "I'm sorry," I apologized, "I didn't think to call ahead. I'm from the public defender's office. That's not a problem, is it?"

"No, not at all," she said. But she went on looking surprised. "Who did you say you were here for--?"

I hadn't. "Mrs. Morales?" I said. "DOC..." I pulled the list out of my pants pocket and read off the number. I always feel ridiculous when I wear pressed slacks. "17395-629?"

"Um..." said the woman. "Wait a minute." She picked up her telephone.

I sat down opposite her desk and smiled. A few minutes later and the door adjacent to us opened up. A prison administrator in a tan uniform squinted dizzily at me.

"C'mon," he said.

I followed him through a maze of drafty hallways, past rooms filled with filing cabinets and through another set of doorways. He led me to a glass partition alongside a big set of double doors not unlike those of a cafeteria. I knew what came next--he was going to pat me down and search me. I didn't like it--to some extent, I don't like anyone touching me, except for Rafael--but to get to Mrs. Morales, to get through to her, I knew it was necessary.

Not long later the prison guard led me through to a big, tiled room with hazy white windows and aluminum tables. He led me to a table on the opposite side of the room and I sat down. He nodded, taciturn; and then he walked over to the doors whence we came, his hands on his belt, and stood watch there all the while, ready for business.

The inmates' door gushed open. A second guard led a woman over to my table, a woman in a garish orange jumpsuit. And immediately my heart leapt into my throat, and my stomach froze over, and the blood in my veins boiled, then chilled.

"Noel?" I said.

The woman staring back at me was short and squat, her hair ridiculously curly, more so even than my own. Her nose was pierced, her eyes hard, flat; dead.

"You my lawyer or what?" she asked, her arms folded insecurely across her chest.

There was a time, when I was a teenager, that CPS placed me in foster care, far from my family and my home. The reasoning was ridiculous: My grandmother had taken me out of state to meet my cousin Marilu and CPS didn't like that she had done it without asking their permission. In foster care I'd met all sorts of colorful people. Janet, the Lambrusco addict. Mrs. Buthrop, the bottle blonde with a heart bigger than her brain.

"You don't remember me," I realized. "Skylar. Your foster brother?"

The dawning in Noel's eyes was slow. But there it was, clear as day.

Her whole disposition shifted. She unfolded her arms and relax. I almost thought she was about to smile.

"Damn," she said. "I ain't seen you in years. When did you start talking?"

"Not long ago," I said, foreign emotions pouring out of me. I don't even know how to describe what I felt. Whatever it was, I tried to smile through it. "I had a surgery. Morales... When did you get married?"

"2007. It wasn't a big deal, we just went down to the court house and signed a couple of papers. That way I didn't have to testify when he shot his brother."

"Oh," I said, and tried not to offend her with my discomfort.

"Damn, quiet boy," she said. "You packed on the pounds!"

I smiled again. "And you lost a few. I can't believe..."

"What? That I'm in jail?"

And then I remembered why I was here.

I stared at the familiar woman across the table from me. I could see her like it was yesterday, in those plaid and denim skirts she used to wear. Good-natured and nosy. Not my best friend on the planet, but when she likes you, she lets you know it.

She's Mickey's mother, I thought.

And then:

She nearly killed her own daughter.

"Noel," I said. I felt as though my sadness had lent weight to gravity; I felt as though gravity were smothering me alive. "What happened to you?"

The hardness returned to her eyes. It unsettled me when I realized I'd seen that same hardness in Mickey's eyes on so many different occasions.

"You got lucky," she said. "You got the good life. And I got bounced along until they forgot about me."

"How could anybody forget about you?" I asked, and smiled ruefully. "You leave quite the impression."

She folded her arms again, her eyes on the tabletop. She shrugged.

And then she said:

"So you my lawyer? You gonna help me get my kid back?"

I felt nauseous. Nauseous and sad.

"No," I said quietly. "I'm the one who wants to adopt her."

When she didn't respond, when she didn't even bat an eye, I thought, at first, that she must have misheard me.

I was wrong.

"The fuck are you talking about? You can't adopt my kid. She's my kid."

"Noel," I said. I felt tired suddenly, aged a thousand years in a single moment. "You stabbed her three times in the chest."

"It was an accident!"

I looked over my shoulder, afraid that the guard would interrupt us. He didn't. I guess he didn't care. Yelling must be par for the course in a penitentiary.

"Get out," Noel said.

"Noel--"

"Get out!"

"No," I said. "I'm not leaving."

She must have seen that I wasn't lying. She slouched in her seat and shrugged her shoulders. She turned her head away from me.

"Like my kid's a damn charity case," she went on. "Like you gotta protect her from her own mom."

"You don't think she needs protecting?" I asked.

"Not from me! I took care of the bitch for six years!"

"Seven," I said. For a moment I felt that my eyes were as hard as hers were. "And don't call her a bitch in front of me."

Noel fell silent.

"What would you have done, Noel?" I pressed. "If your daughter died? What was your plan?"

"I called the cops, didn't I? I didn't want her to die!"

"But you stabbed her."

"Yeah, but she didn't die, so it doesn't matter!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I stared at her, this woman, and tried to find a semblance of the girl I'd known when we were only children. But I couldn't. I didn't recognize her at all.

"She's afraid of you," I said, my voice steady, my voice low. "She has nightmares about you coming back for her."

"You're lying."

"She thinks you hate her."

"She took my man away! She made him go away!"

"Noel," I said. "No child on earth has that power."

"Don't you talk to me like you know better! She's my kid!"

"And you prayed for her to die," I said. "You prayed to the angel to kill her, and when he didn't, you named her after him."

It was one of the most bizarre, most twisted things I had ever heard. I reflected on that now.

"You..." Noel trailed off. "She told you that?"

I nodded. I felt oddly as though I had lockjaw, but I forced myself to reply: "And other things."

Noel drummed her fingertips on the table. She stared at the clipped edges of her nails.

"She must like you..."

"I like her, too." I love her. If I said that to Noel, I thought, she might fly off the handle, and then I'd never get her to agree to relinquishing custody.

"You're trying to take my kid away," Noel said. "Why? She's mine..."

We're talking in circles, I thought. My head was starting to hurt. "Because you hurt her very badly," I reasoned. "And I can't let you hurt her again."

"I won't!"

"Do you know that for sure?"

She didn't answer me. That was an answer in itself.

"We'll take good care of her," I said. "Rafael and I. We'll--" I couldn't help it. "--we'll love her. We'll give her a good home. Nobody will ever hurt her again. She'll be safe...happy..."

Noel slumped in her seat. I thought she was going to start crying.

I thought wrong. I should have known better. I'd seen what fifteen years of prison did to my father. A part of Noel was locked away now. I couldn't say for certain whether it would ever come back.

"Why doesn't anybody ever love me?" Noel asked.

She sounded so much like a child that I wanted to put my arms around her. I wasn't sure the guard on duty would appreciate that.

"You deserve to be loved," I told her. "You do, Noel--so very much. But that doesn't give you the right to kill your child."

She rubbed her broad hands across her face. I noticed she wasn't wearing shackles. This definitely wasn't a federal prison.

"If you love Michaela at all," I said, "then let her live with the people who can take care of her."

"Will I ever see her again?"

"When she's older," I said. "When she's not afraid anymore. But only if she wants to."

Noel dropped her hands to the table. She shrugged her shoulders, reminding me--achingly--of her daughter's feigned nonchalance.

"Didn't like her all that much anyway," she said, the bitter words of a child at heart.

16

No Man's Land

The Three Suns Reservation looks the same in autumn as it does every other day of the year. The saffron canyons and the old-fashioned hogans, the burnished plateaus and the steep ocher valleys--every part of the reservation is steeped in xeric mystery.

Except for the town, at least. If you want modernity, look no farther than the Navajo. They've got motels and an RV park, a casino, a media center and a mall, two restaurants and a helicopter runway. Forget about adapting to the 21st century. They practically own it.

I parked the car in the RV lot; getting it into the town proper was something I didn't trust myself to do. I climbed out and locked the doors, and I found Kaya waiting for me outside the public restrooms.

Man, is that woman chic. She made a halter top and dress pants look like modern-day regalia. She smiled at me and waved. She has a quiet way of smiling, like she knows all the secrets in the universe but doesn't feel like sharing. A lot of people--Rafael included--find that infuriating about her. I've always found it endearing.

We walked together down the mulchy desert terrain, umber and unspoiled. Up above the looming valley was a wide, vast plateau. At the top of the plateau, I knew, was the university.

"So nice of you to join us today," Kaya said.

I was silent throughout the walk up the plateau, huffing and puffing for breath. Alright, I told myself, you're going on a diet.

Jeez, I thought, looking around the town. There may have been streetlights and bus stops scattered about like nobody's business, but the houses were still mudbrick. I guess that's perfectly acceptable when you live beneath hot suns and dry nights.

We crossed the street together. A young woman hung her clothes on a clothesline beneath her apartment complex. A square block was sanctioned off for a children's playground; behind it was the elementary school.

"You've lectured in other schools, I take it," Kaya said.

"Only a few," I said. Even the thought of public speaking makes me nervous. I really should have picked a different career. "How are things between you and Mary?"

"Very well. She'll be visiting tomorrow. Did she tell you she was thinking of opening an auto shop?"

"Is she really? Don't get me wrong--I love her, but...I don't trust her attention span."

"Me, neither. We shall see."

Dine University loomed just ahead of us on the other side of an intersection.

I don't think any description I might give the building would do it proper justice. It was at once the most beautiful and the most ugly building I had ever seen. Panes of tinted glass stretched across the strong steel structure towering into the cloudless sky. I couldn't make out where the residential halls started and ended, but I knew they were a part of the mammoth even if I couldn't see them. Dine University doesn't just service the Navajo. Thousands of Native Americans from every tribe you can think of get their education here.

"The Shakopee have nothing on us," Kaya boasted.

We walked into the lobby. Good God, was it huge. The plain walls were splashed in traditional turquoise art, the floors carpeted in crimson. An elevator stood next to the main stairwell. Opposite them were a lounge with a television screen and a water cooler. A few sleepy students sat yawning on the couch cushions. One of them waved at us.

"I'll get you set up," Kaya said.

She took me up a few flights of stairs and brought me to a room labeled 503. Inside was a lecture hall: rising wooden carrels and a nice, flat projector screen. I didn't know that I was actually going to use the projector. I'm old-fashioned, I suppose. I'd rather rely on my memory.

Kaya left me at the lectern while she went about the hall and flipped the lights on; the microphone, too, I assume. And then the students started filling into the hall and taking their seats. And I just about hurled on the spot. I hate anything that brings unnecessary attention my way. I was starting to wish I hadn't agreed to this.

Pretend you're Mr. Red Clay, I told myself. Mr. Red Clay is one suave son of a bitch. I don't know how he does it, but he commands an entire classroom just by raising his eyebrow or gesturing with his hand. Some people are just born orators. I am not one of them.

I checked my wristwatch. I couldn't postpone it any longer.

"So," I said into the microphone--and immediately stepped back. Yikes, that was loud. A couple of the kids laughed at me. At once I started to relax.

I smiled. "Hi," I said. "I know my voice is a little raspy. Sorry about that."

"Want a coughdrop?" said a boy in the front row. Smartass.

"No. Thank you, though," I said. "Maybe later."

A few of the girls started opening their notebooks.

"What class is this, anyway?" I asked curiously.

A young woman in the middle row wrenched up her face with disbelief. "Political science," she replied. She raised her voice to the best of her ability. I thought: Why don't the kids get microphones, too? But I guess that would be wasteful.

"Well, just so you know," I said, "I hate politics."

A couple of the kids were nice enough to laugh.

"Okay," I said. "I'm sure most of you have encountered politics in day to day life. Probably in some...not very nice ways. Maybe a few of you could list some examples? Yes?" I said, when I noticed a boy with a buzz cut had raised his hand.

"Like when modern historians act like there was never an America until the Europeans came along."

"Oh!" said a girl in a "Makah Do It Better" t-shirt. No, I didn't ask. "Like when the politicians get up on the podiums, and they're all, 'This country was built on the tenets of freedom,' which is so not true, because it was built on top of massacres. And slave ships. And...what are those funny-looking hats the Puritans wore, the ones that look like UFOs..."

"What are you talking about?" asked her neighbor, a harrowed-looking boy.

"Let me ask you something else," I said, because the Makah girl struck me as the conspiracy theorist type, and I'd much rather nip that in the bud. "How many of you plan on having children? Or already have children?"

A significant amount of hands shot up in the air.

"Okay," I said. "Did you know America is considered the world's adoption capital? 4% of the entire population is adopted."

"You look adopted," called out a rude boy in the back row.

"Actually," I said, "I am."

The rude boy gave himself a pat on the back.

"But here's something else you don't know," I said. I was starting to wish I'd taken the time to learn how that projector works. "Every year there are 126,000 kids who need to be adopted. Right here in America. And they never are."

I could see that the confusion was starting to settle in at last.

"Let me explain," I said. "Child protective services from forty different states polled prospective adoptive parents between 2008 and 2012. Almost unanimously, the prospective parents said they wanted to adopt a small child. A baby, or a toddler, or at the very least, a child who doesn't come from an abusive home."

"Oh," said the buzz cut kid. "So the 126,000 kids are teenagers, or abused kids."

"Yes," I said.

The Makah girl piped up again. "Then where's 4% of the population coming from?"

I should have brought a water bottle with me, I thought. My throat was already starting to hurt.

"In the past," I said, "those children came from China and Ethiopia. But," I said, "there's a problem with overseas adoption. A political one. Because if you're adopting overseas, where is the money going?"

"Overseas," said Buzz Cut.

"Right," I said. "The money goes overseas. And this is a government that wants to keep the money on American soil. So, you see, the government needs to provide an alternative to international adoption."

I could feel the tension mounting in the room. I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. The sooner they knew, I thought, the better.

"Let me tell you something," I said. "When I was sixteen, I spent some time in foster care. Not one of my happier moments. For a while I was living with a couple in Central Arizona. And so was a Paiute boy named Danny Patreya."

I looked out at the students' faces. I had no way of knowing which of them, if any, were Paiute.

"Now, I was just a foster kid to this couple," I said. "But Danny--they actually adopted him. And the problem is this. Danny already had a father. A very good father. There were never any complaints against Mr. Patreya. No homestudies, no abuse allegations. One day CPS just terminated his rights and gave Danny away to these two blond strangers living in the middle of the mountains."

"Why?" asked a boy in a Ghostbusters shirt. Nobody else asked why. They had already figured out why.

"This country is not on your side," I said. And it killed me to say that--but I hadn't come all the way out here to lie to them. "This country is about money. Every year, child services kidnap anywhere up to two thousand Native children so the families looking to adopt won't spend that money overseas."

"That's not true," insisted the rude boy at the back.

"I wish it weren't," I said.

"It's true," said a burly girl hugging the wall. Her deep voice carried from behind her carrel, her eyes lined with dark circles. University kids. They never get enough sleep.

"I'm Lakota," she said. "I lost two of my brothers that way. My tribe started a petition online. It's not working, though."

"Why are they kidnapping our kids?" asked the Makah girl. She leaned so far forward, I was afraid she would topple over her desk. "I mean, what about black kids, or white kids, or..."

"Because when it's Native children," I said, "it's easier to cover up." I nodded at the Lakota girl. "Ask your friend here," I said.

"Pine Ridge doesn't have much tech," she said. "Neither does Standing Rock. Or Cheyenne River."

"Or Burnt Hope," called out a boy from the far back of the hall.

"And neither does Pleasance," I said. "Danny's home. The Pleasance Reserve is out in the middle of nowhere. You won't find indignant reporters marching out there. It's a No Man's Land. A free-for-all. In the eyes of the politicians," I said, and I couldn't help a small smile, an unhappy one, "it doesn't exist."

I paused. "You don't exist."

"Then we'll stop this," said the Makah girl. "Let's all take a trip to Gallup, and we'll break into a news studio! And--"

"I admire your resolve," I said, "but getting yourself into legal trouble's not going to solve the issue. And really, who do you think gets the last say in what the media airs? Try not to forget that they only show you what they want you to see."

"So what?" said the rude boy. "Are you saying we're just going to be screwed over for the rest of our lives? And there's nothing we can do about it?"

"Legally?" I said. I felt tired all of a sudden. "No. There's nothing you can do about it. This country is not your friend. The law is built to oppose you in every way you can think of."

"But--"

"But," I said. "Now you know it's going to happen. Take a look around this lecture hall for a second. I can guarantee that this is going to happen to each and every one of you. Maybe your children won't be the ones ripped out of their homes. But your friends' children--your siblings' children? It's going to happen to someone you know. It's been happening for years."

The Lakota girl put her head down.

"What you can do," I said, "is this. You can prepare your children. Teach them all the routes back to their reservation. Teach them how to board a train, a bus. Make sure they're always carrying pocket cash so they can buy themselves food and water. Because your children are going to be taken from you, and you're not going to be told where they are or who they're with. It's going to be up to your children to run away."

I gripped the edges of the lectern and smiled weakly. "Teach your children how to run away."

The Makah girl slowly raised her hand.

"Yes?"

"What happened to Danny?" she asked. "Did he run away?"

I let go of the lectern. I tugged on my necktie.

"He did," I said. "Several times. The first couple of times, I helped him myself. But each and every time he ran back to his father, the police found him and brought him back to the Buthrops."

I thought about Danny with his olive green eyes, Danny with his big imagination and his love for crab fishing and Wovoka.

"Danny ran away thirteen times," I said. "And all thirteen times, the Buthrops found him and took him away again. Even when he and his father went into hiding. His father was arrested at one point." I can't tell you how angry I was just thinking about it. "After the thirteenth failed escape," I said, "the Buthrops decided to send Danny to a juvenile correctional facility."

I'm not kidding; I really thought I was going to throw up.

"They found him hanging in his closet instead."

I actually saw a girl cover her mouth with both hands. Maybe she was going to throw up, too.

"So please," I said. And my voice was so quiet, I wasn't at all certain the microphone was working. "Train your children. Train them until they know every route home. Train them so they know how to disguise themselves. Peroxide's good for that--bleaching hair, I mean. Fingerprints. Did you know you can rub your fingerprints away with a little bit of sandpaper? Or even polyurethane glue. Get rid of your child's fingerprints. Find hiding places with them. Find friends to help you hide them."

I cleared my throat. "I'm awfully sorry I have to ask this of you."

17

Willow

I was exhausted when I walked through the front door. I wanted nothing more than to run upstairs and sleep for a thousand years.

Mickey had other plans.

"You're back!" she said. She placed Mini on the floor and shook me by the shoulders. Or tried to. She was too little; she couldn't reach. "Hurry, hurry! Let's go!"

"Where are we going?" I asked, dumbfounded, while she raced around the front room and tried to find her discarded sneakers.

Mickey tossed me an impatient, impetuous look. "November is the marriage month, dummy," she said. What is it with kids these days and their sassy mouths? "And Zeke's getting married. Rafael said!"

"Where is Rafael?" I wondered, and looked around.

"Here," I heard his gruff voice call out, and then he stomped down the stairs after us like a lazy elephant. Mickey giggled.

"What?" he demanded.

"You're worse than Nicholas after he found out Tesla's been dead since 1943. Can we go already?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rafael said, and threw a shrewd look my way, as though to say, "When did she take charge of the house?"

I tied Mickey's shoes and we left the house, the four of us, Mini darting furtive, blue-eyed glances my way. Little did she know I was too tired to commence the battle this afternoon.

"Rafael gave me a hunting knife," Mickey said. "Want to see it?"

"Maybe later," I said, mortified.

We headed north to the badlands. Mickey took Mini into her arms; Rafael and I took Mickey by her shoulders. I don't trust the slippery clay out there for anything.

On the trek down the blue-gray terrain we met up with Lila and Joseph Little Hawk. Lila looked insanely bored.

What's the matter? I signed.

She says marriage is an outdated institution, Joseph signed back.

I'm leading the way to a revolution, Lila signed.

We hiked out to the promontory, the tallest point in the badlands. A few families had already gathered atop the cliffside. With them was Immaculata Quick, in plain white elk pelt, looking very loopy, and only a little authoritative. Zeke and Holly showed up some seconds later. The ceremony began.

"What's she saying?" Mickey whispered to me.

"She's speaking Shoshone," I whispered back. "She's telling them to be good and kind to one another."

"Don't think those words are in Holly's vocabulary," Rafael murmured.

Daisy At Dawn jeered and threw lilacs at her sister's head--a naughty joke, because lilacs in Shoshone society have always represented virginity. "When was I ever a virgin?" Holly wanted to know. Luke Owns Forty cut strips of hair from his son and daughter-in-laws' heads and tied them together, a very emotional smile on his face. Later on he would hide them in a safe place. The couple could only divorce by finding the locks and untying them again.

"Allen must be pissed," Rafael said, and tried and failed to smother his grin.

"Why's that?" Mickey asked.

"He wants to do the wedding ceremonies. He thinks everyone should get married Christian."

"That's dumb."

Zeke came toward us just then, swinging his arms. He looked happy in a way I'd seldom seen him look before: content. He smiles a lot, Zeke, don't get me wrong, but usually it's a frantic smile.

"Wanna sign your adoption papers now?" he asked.

I felt Mickey stiffen at my side with anticipation. I smiled. "Later on," I said. "First we have to mourn the end of your free days."

"Free days? I haven't had a free day since I started dating her! I--oh," he said, because here she came now.

"Rumor has it there's a grotto in the woods," Holly said. As long as I've known her, she's been a very dour, dramatic girl. In her youth, she bickered with Zeke all the time; and I'm half-convinced they only married so they could go on bickering in closer, easier proximity. Today, on the other hand...today, she almost looked friendly. "Is there a reason I'm not allowed to see it?"

"The grotto," Rafael said. "Damn. I haven't been there in years. Don't know whether I even remember the way."

"I do," Annie sang. And she was by our side in seconds; Aubrey behind her, the babies on his back. "I suppose we can share it with outsiders, just this once. After all," and she winked, "it's a special occasion."

We climbed down the promontory together, careful, attentive to the unstable terrain. Mickey scratched Mini behind her ears. I could feel Mickey's curious gaze traveling between my face and Rafael's. I reached sideways and ruffled her hair.

Annie led the way into the woods. Aubrey followed her, and Leon tagged after him while singing Rabbit Guts, a delightful little round dance ditty. Occasionally Leon lunged and swung his fists at the weeds standing on either side of the dirt road. Nicholas dragged his feet across the ground, his head bent, and mopped at the back of his neck. His hair's darker than his parents'; dark attracts sunlight. Poor kid must have been heating up. That's okay, I thought. He'll be nice and cool once we reach the grotto.

I looked around, and I realized more people had followed us than I'd initially accounted for. Dad and Racine, Dad's face unreadable, Racine's arm around his waist. Zeke and Holly walking side-by-side, Holly trying very hard not to smile. Reuben with his daughter Serafine, Serafine gabbing with Charity, Charity followed by Rosa, Rosa's shoulders wrapped safely in Gabriel's embrace. Peripherally I saw Lila and Joseph signing to one another a mile a minute, and Daisy and Isaac with their grumpy son Ryan and their bashful son Gideon; and I glanced over my shoulder and saw DeShawn struggling to catch up with Autumn Rose, and Jessica and Prairie Rose holding hands like innocent schoolgirls. They're still little girls in my eyes. But don't tell them I said that.

What is this, I wondered with a smile, the reception committee?

"Wow..." Mickey breathed.

The forest opened unto a clear, cascading creek, a creek that wrapped around the base of a sweeping, majestic willow tree. Here the beeches were clustered so closely together that the whole ground was painted in cool, filtered sunlight. Many of the beeches had shed their preliminary autumn foliage; flaming orange and blood-red leaves swam down the creek like children's rafts, leisurely and safe. And on the other side of the creek was the natural rock cave, its mouth painted welcomingly in faded pastel stars.

I tilted my head back. I could hear the windchimes clapping musically from the highest boughs of the drooping willow tree. I could hear the robins and the goldfinches calling to one another from the kaleidoscopic beech trees. The goldfinches had to wander far to get to this place; their home was in the badlands, in the southern oak groves.

The sky skimming the tops of the trees was flushed pink with the dawn of evening. Above the pink aura was a blanket of soft gray.

"This is so cool..." Mickey said.

"I wonder," Annie said, "whether my beads are still in that cave?"

"Really," Aubrey said, "I can't believe it's so long since we've come out here. It doesn't look changed at all."

Aubrey sat by the mouth of the cave with the babies on his lap, their curious little eyes roaming safely from the confines of their cradleboards. Annie drifted into the cave and Nicholas went after her: "Is this cave a limestone deposit? You can get good drinking water that way..." Leon prowled and leapt and hopped on his heels and Serafine caught him in her arms, clucking her tongue. "Swing me around, please!" he begged; and she did. Gabriel and Rosa and Charity laughed over a waddling quail in the distance.

Mickey knelt by the creek and lowered her wrist to the surface. The pilot whale dangling from her wrist lapped in and out of the flowing water.

Kids, I thought, and shook my head, innately warmed.

"Hey," Rafael said, and nudged me. "Look who's back."

A coywolf came edging around the creosote bushes. I recognized him at once, his legs slender and long, his torso stout, his sandy coat flecked with silver. He shook his floppy ears and stalked closer, curious.

"What is that?" Mickey asked when she looked up. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

"He's a coywolf," I said. "Half wolf, half coyote."

"Like the two halves of God," Mickey said.

I was impressed that she had remembered the story. "This one's name is Tello," I told her.

Tello crept closer, inspecting Mickey with soft yellow eyes. Mickey laid her hands on the ground. She looked toward me nervously. "Is he safe?"

"Very safe," I said. "Coywolves never attack humans."

Tello stuck his head out. He batted his nose against Mickey's.

"Cold!" Mickey exclaimed, laughing.

"That's how he knows he can trust you," Rafael told her. "When they bump noses, they're figuring out whether you're okay."

"Well," Mickey said, "I'm okay."

"Unless there's a bear around," I remarked. Rafael gave me a quick look.

"Why's he called Tello?" Mickey asked. She extended her hand slowly.

"It's short for Pocatello," I told her. Tello calmly sniffed the palm of her hand. "I was very good friends with his dad," I said. "And his dad was kind enough to let me name the both of them."

Mini started hissing. Tello turned his golden head and gazed at her. He could smell Mickey's scent on her. He wouldn't pounce on a common house cat.

"Mini," Mickey scolded.

I touched my hand against the base of Tello's head. He tilted his head, just so, and peered at me. When you look into a coywolf's eyes... I don't know how to explain it. You feel as though you're looking into a human's eyes.

"Check out that willow," Nicholas said suddenly. He emerged from the cave and pointed at the stately tree.

My heart caught in my throat. The trunk of the tree was smooth with weather and age, an indescribably silver-brown. The tendrils hanging from the bent, spread branches were the softest green on earth. They swayed and danced in the wind; they paused in the still air like falling rain.

This was the tree where Uncle Julius had tumbled to his death, Dad powerless to help him. This was the tree I had lain beneath many summers ago, with my friends and with my cousin; with Rafael as we traded our first touches, as we first came to know the world.

The world doesn't really change, does it? We come and we go, and we think we're so important, we can't possibly comprehend how the world doesn't come tumbling down when our lives do. It's so cold, so heartless. So beautiful. It doesn't matter how many of us walk across the surface of the planet. The sun will still rise when we've finished rising with it. The earth is no less warmer for our absence on it.

I trailed over to the willow tree before I even knew what I was doing.

Dad sat beneath the sweeping, elegant boughs. His knees were raised, his arms around them. He looked up when I approached him. He smiled a watery smile.

I sat next to him, my hand on his shoulder. I could feel him relaxing beneath my palm.

Which of these branches had Uncle Julius fallen from? I didn't know. Just like I couldn't remember which branch my cousin Marilu had climbed when she first discovered the mourning cloaks hiding among the bark. Or which tendrils Rafael had chased me through the first time I coaxed him into a race through the woods.

Rafael sat on my other side. His arm was comforting around my waist, his hand warm against my thigh. For a moment I forgot how old we were. For a moment I felt as small as the windchimes hanging from the top of the tree. Beautiful, painted glass butterflies, glass stars in wine red and ocean blue.

Mickey wandered over to the three of us. She invited herself to sit on Dad's other side.

"Do you know," Dad started suddenly, but stopped.

"What?" Mickey asked.

"In Shoshone," Dad said, "the word for 'friends' is the same word for 'family.' Nimaa."

"Nimaa," Mickey repeated, trying it on for size.

I watched Zeke splashing Annie with cold water from the creek. I watched Reuben feeding Tello with dried blue corn kernels from his back pocket.

I tipped my head back and inspected the hanging glass stars. A desert-orange star caught on one of the topmost branches when the wind blew its way. Wedged between the branch and the tree trunk, the star stood still.

"Stop! Stop! Oh, you're mean!" Charity shrieked at Zeke, her pants soaked with creek water.

"I'll bet you didn't know something," Mickey told Dad.

I had to smile. What sort of childlike wisdom was she about to impart on him? What could she possibly know that the rest of us hadn't figured out yet?

"I have two dads," she said.

I could feel it when Dad smiled. Dad doesn't usually smile, you know. I've always thought he must have forgotten how. What is that like? To go through your life, day by day, the same as always, and one day realize you haven't smiled in years? What does it feel like to smile again after all that time has passed?

I don't know. I couldn't tell you. I think I've always been smiling. Hopefully I won't find a reason to stop.

"I wasn't aware," Dad said. "You're a very lucky girl."

* * * * *

Shoshone Glossary

Masukwih! Yuhupippuh! - Screw yourself! Fat man!

Sai Paa Hupia - Boat [and] Water Song

Nai Nukkwi - Girl [Who] Ran

Makan Imaa - Gives Light, Gives Morning

Sape Naha - Looks Over [Her Shoulder]

Pia, hinna punikkatu? - Mother, welcome home. (lit. "Mother, what are you doing here?")

Nian huttsimpia keehinna tokwinna! Tupichi tammattsi, tangku watsingku, puesusu ponaahwa piammutonna... Ma punni, sapan nahnappuh, tuchu pai nian nanumu... Hakanukwitu, Tam Apo, hakanukwitu... - My daughter-in-law is worthless! What a fool, getting the two of us lost, and well past child-bearing age is she... Look, there's the eldest child, a pox upon my family... Why, God, why...

Taipo'o! Dosabitumu kimmatu nian sokowa innuntukkah pinnasu! - The white man! The white devil has come to take my land again!

Kanaakka. Nian ukupinaa tangummu kanaakka, uu wailt pusikwatu'ih... - A black woman. My first lover was a black [man], but they'll never know...

Tuupukkan uma! Takkamah! - Wrathful rain! Beware!

Mutsachi - Little Mountain Sheep (lit. "Mountain Sheep Yearling")

Tsinnahi - Makes Them Laugh

Nihatta! Nian tua nia yaakkin tukuna pauwau, haka tsao suwa pauwau ma'i? Kuttaan nu hupichi, nu kee tunaakasuwanna ma uku tammattsimmuh... - What an insult! My son takes me to a pauwau, what would I want with a pauwau? I am very old, I don't want to spend my time with young fools...

Taipo'o nian tama kappayummuh innuntukkahppuh! Nia punni! - White man stole my teeth and my horses! Just look at me!

Tottsaa - Loaded bread

Tokochi'na kuhmachi, dosabitumu, yuhupukkanna... - My grandson's husband, the white devil, he could lose some weight...

Numu paa kutsapi'kontuih wuchamata huuppiammu. - You will poison our waters and tie up our women.

Kimma! - Come!

Acha Dine! - Wretched Navajo!

Sutummu tukummuinna - To understand each other without speaking the same language

Tsitsaseh kimmayu! - Jesus is coming!

Yepani Hupia - Autumn Song

Bia'isa-soto - Wolf-drag

Tello - Forger, Maker

Pocatello - Middle Road Maker

Nimaa - Friend, family

* * * * *
