“Thank you for this food,” he said. Then he blew on the spoonful of mush to cool it, before putting it into his mouth. It had been sweetened with maple sugar. Not only did it taste good, he realized how hungry he was. He took another, bigger spoonful and then another. He felt starved as a wolf in winter. But as he was filling his stomach, the thought of Tawis came back to him.

It hit him like a blow to his head. Where was his friend now? Was he well or suffering? Was he eating or being starved by his captors? The corn mush no longer tasted as good to him. He licked his spoon clean, wiped it with a corn husk, and put it back onto his belt. He dipped one of the nearby gourds into the clay pot beaded with sweat that sat a long arm’s length from the fire. “Thank you,” he said. Then he washed down the last of his breakfast with the cool spring water.

When he stepped outside, there were few of his fellow villagers to be seen. The sun was already two hands above the horizon. By now most of the women had gone down the hill to the fields, accompanied by well-armed men to guard them while they worked. Burnt Hair was standing watchfully by the village gate, and Okwaho’s father had stationed himself by the edge of the main path into the woods.

Okwaho was relieved to see his father and Tawis’s uncle. He understood what that meant. If there was a raid planned on the Oneidas, they would have been the ones to lead it. Despite what had happened, they were not going off on a raid of their own to seek revenge.

A little group of small children were playing the hoop game by the southern wall of the palisade around their town. But he didn’t see . . .

A stone formed in his belly as Okwaho realized what he was doing. He was looking around for Tawis as he always did each day. Expecting his best friend—the only young person of his age who had ended up in their small community—to creep up and jump on him from behind to start one of their wrestling matches that often ended with neither being able to throw the other.

Okwaho started walking toward the gate. He nodded at his father and then at Burnt Hair, but said nothing. He didn’t even speak the morning greeting—“I am glad to see you looking well.”

His father, seeming to understand that words were not possible, or perhaps that silence might communicate more than words at a time such as this, also said nothing. He only nodded and squeezed his son’s shoulder gently as he walked through the gate. Okwaho went no farther than the edge of the woods, where he relieved himself and then turned to look back.