God, not a time to socialize? He was such an insufferable wiener. Instead of voicing this opinion, I asked more questions. “Are you a part of that group?”

He smiled. “No, no, I have moved up from that. I am kind of a supervisor. I do advise on the Program, since I was part of the inaugural class. I’ve yet to take the final step into the field, but hopefully soon. And hopefully with you.”

He crossed two fingers for good luck. I mimicked the motion.

“But no real interaction with the inmates—”

“Residents.”

“Residents? Like, I can’t hang out in the common room with everyone else?”

He chuckled. “Definitely not. Besides, why would you want to? Those people have no hope of moving into the system. They are the rejects, the holdouts, the past. We”—he put a hand on my shoulder—“are the now, the future.”

He snapped the folder shut and placed it on the bed, stretching to his full height. “We’re going to make sure future generations will be safe and well and whole.”

“Yeah, but honestly? Whose future generations?” I couldn’t help it.

“Oh, brother. You have a lot to learn.” He walked to the door, then turned to say goodbye. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

I saluted his retreating figure before picking up the folder to read the schedule in full. And there in the back folder, I found a pen. Just a simple, cheap plastic ballpoint pen, but I knew it was off limits—I could get punished for having it. I should call Mitch back and return it. I stood up, moving toward the open door, before I shook off the programming and stashed it under the toilet tank, balanced on a coil of pipe.

✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦

At eight a.m. sharp, I met the grey-scrubbed man who had brought me the bag of clothes and supplies weeks ago. He walked alone down the hallway, paused at my door, then carried on without a word. I hesitated at first, then shuffled alongside him. It was weird to be alone with another Native in the hallway. I felt giddy, but a new kind of giddy cut with fear. I was scared a lot these days. I jumped when the shower started and picked my nails bloody in conversations with Mellin. I moved to the side of the hallway when someone passed and kept my eyes on my feet. It was safer that way. But now this was someone like me, someone in grey scrubs, with a shaved head, with my skin. I had to try.

“Aaniin,” I ventured before switching to Cree, just in case, then Mohawk. “Tansi. Shé:kon.”

He didn’t answer, but his shoulders stiffened. I regretted the words immediately. They could be taken as a sign of dissent, of rebellion. The words were powerful. After all, Minerva had used the language to escape the machinery of the school, the one that had ended up burnt to the ground. The siren whispered in my ear from somewhere not too far away, always waiting, always calling to me. We walked the rest of the way in silence.