The Chief had to die. The rest could just be unconscious, because even if some of the women woke early, they would be harmless as long as the Chief was out of the way. He was the battery in the familial machine. Without him there was no movement, no light, no purpose.

To make sure the plan had the best chance of “taking,” Nam had to proceed in stages. The first was morphine in their homemade liquor—already a mixture that made them slow and stupid. After the celebration where Nam played heavy-handed bartender came the ceremony, and then there was more morphine, this time mixed into Rose and Derrick’s blood. By then, the Chief and his women were slurring and moving like litter caught in a current. Nam suggested they turn in early, that perhaps the booze had come from an exceptionally strong batch, that the ceremony had probably been doubly effective.

“Get to your beds,” they told the group with false excitement. “The dreams are on the way!”

Half the Wives cried, stumbling over chairs and the bubbles in the water-rotted rugs to get to their nests. The Chief gathered Nam in his arms before he retired to his bedroom alone, his skin sweaty and cold at the same time.

“You make everything possible, little bird. You are the original dream catcher. I hope you see prophecy tonight, like I did years ago when I first laid eyes upon you.”

Nam kept their eyes wide open and bore the revulsion of his touch by emptying everything of value from their mind, from their skin, leaving nothing for him to reach, not like before. For years, they had called him Uncle Bear, not for his protection or size, but for the shadows he threw on their bedroom wall in the moonlight, creeping softly in at first, then without care later on when there were no adults left to hear or stop him.

“Good night, Uncle.” Nam snapped their hand at their side, and the plastic bag unfurled.

There were some signs that all was not well. Some gurgling, a gasp or two, the cacophony of a blind stumble into chamber pots around midnight, but all in all, it was without the pomp of the usual household ceremony. The Wives wouldn’t wake up for hours, maybe a whole day. And when they did, they’d be alone and useless. Maybe some would choose to join their leader. Maybe others would wander off into the woods. But no matter what happened now, they were no longer a threat.

Nam read comics by candlelight while listening to the Wives stumbling around, a few retching into bowls, one continually crying until she was breathing deep and heavy, hung over the arm of the couch. Nam took their time turning the pages, seeing more color now than they had ever noticed in the muted drawings. They wondered if Rose and Derrick knew, if they had felt the Chief’s struggle through the floorboards, up through the walls, as he tried unsuccessfully to untie the knots that held the plastic bag tight around his neck and over his head.