“Okay,” says an officer with a crew cut. “Sit down.”

It has been told before, but none of them know it now, when the whales were there years ago, at the turn of the century, when the Americans first came and made some of the Indian men believe they could take up another way and profit and win when win was a word that never existed in A’atsika. Neither did profit or lie.

And the other policeman looks up. One with his hair sprayed and combed like Johnny Cash gets up and brings the men back to sit on hard wooden chairs near him. They have a record on Dwight. For a while they are all bodies of silence. Then Dimitri talks. They listen for a while. The one with a crew cut runs his fingers through his hair. It feels good, his new haircut, like touching an animal, and the officer rubs his sore shoulder as he listens. The other writes it all down, then he pushes back his chair on wheels and says, “At last. Let’s go,” and they leave the men on the hard chairs and walk out the door to go pick up Dwight. “This time the witnesses want to talk.” All of them, no longer afraid. There is something the men want deeper than what they know, beyond human law and justice. It is to go back to being who they used to be, to love, to the touch of a foot on earth as a sacred touch, to the whale mother, to home.

At Dwight’s the dogs bark fiercely at the door. Outside, the policemen look at each other. They hope they don’t have to shoot the dogs. They both hate shooting animals. Dwight gets up from the couch and the ball game and goes to the door where the dogs are barking. He opens it to see if there is a raccoon or skunk. He has his rifle in his hand to shoot the damned animal and hang it somewhere for others to see, hoping it is not a skunk because it will stink to high heaven. He is surprised to see the police there. “It’s okay,” he tells the dogs. “It’s okay, Jake.”

When they see him with the rifle, they think he is dangerous. “Drop the fucking gun,” says the officer. “Call off the dogs.”

The other tries to be more soothing. “Just put it down nice and easy and don’t try anything. We don’t want any trouble, especially with your wife here.”

Dwight knows the routine. He’s been through it. He lays it down gently on the floor. He has been to war. He has told many men the same thing.

“Here, boys,” he says to the dogs. “It’s okay.” They go out and pretend to chew on each other’s necks, growling, playing.

“What’s up, Lyndon?” Dwight asks, feigning innocence. “Hey, man, you know me. Haven’t we known each other forever?” He looks at JC, as he has silently called him behind his back. “I been buying you drinks for years.”