Then she was carried. By waves so large that Ruth had to make a choice. She could try to return to land, with no guarantee of reaching it, she could fight the water to continue on, maybe running out of gas, or she could wait for the tide to change. She decided that last was the wisest choice, to move with the water and not against it. And so she sat in the waves, covered with her wet cape and warm enough with the life jacket, letting herself go out farther into the ocean until water changed its will. Otherwise, just as in her life, it would take everything she had just to remain in one place.

It was good she had the time to think. She went over Milton’s statement. She believed him. He was not cunning enough to lie. Marco, the child once held in her arms beside her in bed, had been murdered, and she tried to think of why. And who she could go to. The tribal police would not investigate Dwight or the others. Those outside the tribe would not believe her or, if they did, would not give it much thought. Besides, after killing the whale, no one wanted anything to do with them. They were ostracized, disliked right now by most of America.

Thomas knew Milton told the truth, but he’d said nothing. Ruth knew Thomas well enough to know he still had some feelings, even if dwindling, toward the men he had known all his life, those like Dwight, a few years older, who had always fished with him, had gone with him to hunt in the great forests, to drum and sing at the ocean, yet Dwight had always fallen short of Thomas and his resentment wasn’t always held at bay.

Ruth was tired of her own people, tired of struggling with fishing nets and her boat, tired of Thomas, tired even of grief. She couldn’t yet think that there are always times of respite, a saving grace. For now it seemed she had nothing left. She waited out the waves, wishing Hoist the dog were with her. She looked at the water and the lead color of sky. She had strong arms and she knew the ocean. She thought of the stories of deep sea fishermen, with the sudden winds, flying manta rays, the octopus like the one Witka met, or the octopus who came out of the ocean on the day after Thomas was born and how everyone thought Thomas would be special because of this event. But he was only a man, after all, and a broken one at that.

What Ruth didn’t know was that on land Thomas was making his own plans. He’d used the brown truck, gone to the lumberyard, and bought wood and posts and cement and was creating a realm for his own sorrow. He was remembering the past. He was moving into Witka’s old house up on the black rock. He was building yet another wall.