The Earth was a fighter, and sometimes that’s nothing more than the choreography of reclamation.

Rose turned back to the camp and went to her backpack, full of medical supplies and tinned food, a knife, and a small tarp to collect water. She was more grateful than ever that Nam had scavenged the pantry before they’d escaped the house in the woods. She reached into the front pocket and pulled out a small bundle. Then she made her way around the perimeter of sleeping bodies to the place where Wab and Ishkode shared the only remaining blanket. The baby was sighing in her sleep. She didn’t cry much, already attuned to the danger of that pitch. This soft exhalation fringed in voice was more useful, letting her mother rest swaddled in the certainty of her baby’s steady breathing.

Rose slunk forward, pulled the bundle from her pocket, and unwrapped the cloth. Minerva’s jingles, the ones she’d carefully crafted from tin cans and discarded lids. Minerva, who hung in the night gallery beside all the other Grandmothers now. Minerva, who had known that one day there would be someone in a dress that made a sound like nothing else in the world. Minerva, who had known that one day, the people would be loud again.

Rose rewrapped the handful of jingles, already dangerous with potential, and tucked them in beside Ishkode. They were hers now, and one day, Rose would help her make the dress that would hold them. This child would make noise, like shattered glass being put back together. And they needed it, because a new cacophony was breaking in. It was just up ahead. Rose could feel it, cresting the audible edge of tomorrow. It was coming on dark wings, making short work of time and distance. And this would be the way they resisted. This would be the reclamation. This was the girl who would be loud.

Ishkode was a fighter, and sometimes that’s nothing more than the choreography of being born everything the ancestors ever dreamed of. And those ancestors,

they

never

stopped

dreaming.

Author’s Note

There was not going to be a sequel to The Marrow Thieves. And then the very people I wrote the book for asked for more. So this book is dedicated to the kids who wrote me letters, the Reserves and communities who invited me to speak, the students who asked big questions, and every person who identified with these characters and demanded that their story continue.

I am from a specific community with a specific history and an ongoing culture. I cannot and do not speak for all of us—no one can. The fictional characters in these books come from a diversity of land, families, backgrounds, languages, teachings, and identities. I wrote it this way to include as many of us as I could, to show us together resisting and holding one another close through a dark time, to reflect the readers who deserve to see themselves in print. If I got something wrong, I am truly sorry and will try to do better. If I got something right, please accept it as both a gift and a responsibility to honor our ongoing cultures.