“Listen, you little punk, you settle that with your aunt Ramona. She’s the one who’s collecting your pay.”

Ramona? He’s lying!

“And don’t you ever forget that I’m the boss here. You’re just an Indian.”

I grab him by his lapel and I pull him toward me.

“Give me my money!” I shout in his face.

I feel very strong, but Rosaire shoves me away and slams my back against the cooler. The bottles knock against one another and topple over.

I open the door of the cooler, take out a beer. It feels cold in my hand. I throw it against the mirror with all my strength. The bottle breaks, the mirror shatters into a thousand pieces. There’s glass everywhere, and beer runs down the wall.

People shout. Rosaire disappears under the counter. I throw bottles everywhere. They roll down the bowling alleys into the pins.

The door opens with a crash. Footsteps pound down the stairs. Two police officers with sticks grab my shoulders with an iron grip and cuff my hands behind my back.

I am a prisoner. I can’t hold myself up. They throw me onto the stairs and drag me up.

I hear Rosaire screaming below.

“You’re nothing but a damned savage, a miserable piece of shit! A stinking Indian! Never set foot in my bowling alley again. Understand?”

Outside there’s a crowd. The movie is just letting out. I wish I could just take a minute to take a deep breath of cold air, but they throw me onto the floor in the back of the police car.

I feel like a dog in a cage. I try to pull myself up so I can sit down, but I can’t do it without my hands. I feel like I’ve fallen over a steep precipice.

I gather all my strength and twist my neck around.

“Hey, taxi!” I scream. “Take me to 531 rue de la Madone!”

“Shut your fat mouth, Indian!”

• • •

I open my eyes a little at a time, blinking rapidly. The light is white and blinding. I have an unbelievable headache, as if my skull has been split in half. There’s the taste of blood in the back of my throat.

Where am I? What has happened to me? My arms hurt. I’m cold. I see the cement ceiling, big bars.

I surface bit by bit. I stretch my legs.

I’m in jail.

I’m in jail, lying on a hard, narrow bed without a mattress or blanket, and I hurt all over.

What did I do?

I screamed and howled like a pack of wolves. I kicked. They beat me, threw me onto the bed. I heard their words ringing in my head like blows. “Shut up, Indian! Shut up!” They took my shoelaces, my belt, my cigarettes, my coat. And my knife.

They had no right to take my knife.

“You’re thieves! Nothing but damned thieves! That’s all I have! Now I have nothing. Nothing!”

“Shut up!”