What world would welcome this baby? How would they survive? What could he possibly give to ensure that survival? He would give anything. In time, he could teach them to shoot and run and deliver messages without words. He could share trapping skills and how to get clean water and the best ways to hide. But for now, in these early days and the ones to come, what could he possibly do?

The first thing anyone needed to make the right moves toward survival was the truth—the lay of the land, the history of the place, the people they could trust and the ones they had to run from. This generation would be the first one born during this new epoch. So it was his responsibility as a father to give his child the map to find a way forward. There was no forward movement without truth. So then, that was what he had to give, as hard as it was, as much as he wanted to keep the darkness at bay.

Taking one last look at Wab’s sleeping face, he lowered his lips again and started to tell his story for the very first time.

✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦

I tried to get help. I tried to get them to help me. And then they reminded me of who I was. What I was.

People called me quiet, or sullen, or stupid. But when you’re alone, it’s easier not to talk. Why start a conversation when it’s going to be one-sided? Why get to know someone if next week they’ll be replaced by someone else? My life didn’t have a soundtrack, you know? Because it wasn’t a movie. It was more like a bunch of scenes stitched together.

Scene one: Eating corn syrup on white bread from a paper bag. Sitting at a Formica table. My feet don’t touch the floor, which is good, because this home has a dog that wants to sink its broken teeth into my bare legs. I keep as immobile as I can and still be chewing.

Scene two: Carrot sticks rolling around on a Styrofoam plate. From the back porch, I watch two boys who belong there play badminton with loose-stringed rackets in the yard. One of them looks over, sees me, flips me the finger, and goes back to playing.

Scene three: I am so grateful to be back in the group home, because this one has bedroom doors that lock. I lie flat on my back and watch the car lights draw stripes up the white walls. An average of ten cars an hour pass down the street. I keep as quiet as I can and still be breathing.

Scene four: Things have gone weird, and kids are disappearing, but no one is looking for them. I wander off after school and never go back. Soon, one of the straps on my backpack breaks. I tie it together with a shoelace and keep walking.

Scene five: Outside a small town, there are farms. Their fields lie against one another like patches on a quilt, smoothed out and equally divided. I like crossing their boundaries from the road. I disrupt their polite geometry. A truck rumbles behind me, slowly passes, and then pulls into the ditch in front of me. Both doors open, and men in old hats and new sunglasses get out. One of them has a knife in his belt. But it’s the second one who scares me; he’s smiling real big. I jump over a low fence and into the field. They’re shouting, calling me a dream smuggler, calling me a coward, calling me an Indian, and closing in behind me. I run so hard I have to close my eyes. I run so hard I can’t hear anything but my heart in my head and the wheat at my knees. I run until the only thing left in my body is burn. I run as fast as I can and still be thinking.