They leaned together and kissed, breaking apart only to gasp at the power of that small act of resistance: love despite it all, love because of it all.

Eventually, they walked back to camp, to Miig’s small tent set at the far side of the circle, to lie, grateful, in each other’s arms, but only for a few hours. Only long enough to give their bodies the sleep they needed to search again.

CHAPTER 3

PRISON

French

I WAS BACK WITH MY FAMILY.

Miigwans lit a sprig of white sage and placed it to burn on a rock in front of the small fire. White sage was precious because it wasn’t from this territory. It was one of the ways we knew how important we were, even now, especially now. We were worth that cumulous smoke. We were as necessary as this medicine. We leaned in closer, our shoulders touching, reminding us we were a circle, no matter how much smaller that circle had become.

“It’s time for Story.”

I sat beside Rose, the only girl who’d ever made my chest expand so much I could breathe bigger, which meant I could be bigger. Maybe even better. I pushed my knee up against the outside of her leg.

She kissed her teeth. “Move, na?” Her father was from Barbados, and in some moments she borrowed his cadence. She was missing him, and his words brought him a little closer. It was a luxury for her.

Beside her, Slopper slouched, his chin resting on his chest. He drew foliage in the dirt with the tip of a branch. He was still a child, but he was working to carry language, and the words he had memorized made him taller. He was becoming a giant and deserved the respect one affords a giant.

Wab rested her head on Chi Boy, who rubbed her pregnant stomach while staring into the flames. She absentmindedly stroked the lines on the ruined side of her still-beautiful face, feeling the memories raised and scored into her skin.

Tree and Zheegwon, identical in every way save the hand-me-down clothes they wore, kept all four eyes on the near distance, on the trees where they turned to shadows and sway. They were posted lookouts for the next five hours, and that job didn’t end, even during Story. Their fifteen-year-old bodies were lean to the point of sharp beauty. You had to look close to see that one of them was missing the outer shell of an ear, or a pinky finger, or to make out the dents in their legs, the painful movement of a badly healed elbow, all injuries suffered at the hands of people looking for a cure, trying to dig one out of these remarkable boys and their fragile skin.

Miigwans was elegant even in mourning, even in dirty pants, even without adornment. He was our Elder, the only one we had left in this found family, though there had once been two. He was elegant in his rupture and repair. He spoke now: