“They’re all like, ‘Oh, I would never take marrow from your people’ and ‘I’m anti-government and against the death camps, so I refuse the dream serum on principle.’” Nam imitated their voices, exaggerated their movements. “As if they could even afford treatment. That’s what it is—lack of choice, not principles. So they took the middle ground, finding a real live Indian to chirp after like baby birds.”

“Gross.” Rose kept an eye on the hallway, watching for the return of the group, hoping they stayed occupied long enough for her to get the real scoop.

“The women, they have this idea that he can save them. That he’s some kind of medicine man.” Nam put air quotes around this. “And I think he really thinks he can. Pfft, idiots. All of them.”

Nam was quiet in voice but strong with opinions, and Rose liked that, even if getting them to spit them out was like pulling teeth.

“Listen, does this guy even really have meds at all?” She had taken a quick and discreet stroll around the living room, looking for weapons and clocking the exits, just in case. “Is it a lie? Like, should I be dragging my friend out of here before he croaks?”

“Not in here.” Nam had noticed Rose scouting the room. “But yeah, he does, in a different room. He cleaned out the reserve health center before we left.”

Rose stopped searching. “He took all the medical supplies? There was no one left who would need them, right?”

Nam looked at their feet.

“Right?” Rose repeated.

Just then, the Chief returned with his flouncy circle of admirers. Seeing them so jovial, without a care in the world, while Derrick sweated through the mattress in the other room took the last of Rose’s patience.

“I need to check on my friend.” She pushed past them, shoulder-checking the Chief on the way out. “Someone has to take care of him.”

Derrick didn’t get any antibiotics until nearly midnight, if the clock on the living room mantel was to be believed. Even then, it only happened after Rose threatened to drag his broken ass back into the woods. The Chief insisted on administering the drugs himself, removing them from a locked closet and then closing the bedroom door after him. He took one Wife in with him, the blond one with dreads who he called Owl. The other women pouted as they waited outside in the hall. One girl, younger than the rest, with short brown hair and a heart-shaped mole on her cheek, actually cried.

“It’s okay, Robin. One day you’ll be chosen,” the one known as Wren consoled her, but with an odd smirk on her pallid face. She moved as if underwater, trying to be seductive even now, without an interested audience. Her mullet made the theatrics almost comical.

“What the actual hell?” Rose whispered to Nam. “What’s up with these women?”

Nam shrugged and carried a load of dirty dishes into the kitchen. Rose followed.