Lance walks into the horse pen and starts to stroke the neck of a speckled grey mare. Tom sits down with the camp cat called Frank, lights another cigarette and tells his auntie that Frank is the best horse in camp. I laugh and start to shovel up horse manure, telling Sister that it’s loaded with worms. She strokes and strokes each horse with a soft brush. She is polishing them the way we used to polish our military floors. She is wanting them to shine for whoever is coming out today. For her, so much of life is based on appearance. The older couple who run the camp eventually come along.

“Louise,” the older woman says, “What would we do without you here to take care of things for us?” My head snaps over to their conversation. What the hell is going on? Sister has changed her name. I didn’t know that part. Growing up she was Amak. We all called her Ama for short. It was fitting then, but now with the changes in her life maybe a name change was required. I’ve been calling her Ama over the last month.

“Well, Cheryl, look at all the help I have today. This is my sister and her sons. They’ve come out for the weekend, like I told you they would.” A round of hellos and nodding happens as we all introduce ourselves. I tell Cheryl that the horses have worms and she says that she knows. Cheryl looks like a circus clown to me. Bright red cheeks and big blue eyes, the reddest lipstick I’ve ever seen on a woman and bleached blonde hair that hangs in thin strands under her cowboy hat. She tells me that the animals are all scheduled for meds later that night.

The riders begin to arrive and each horse is saddled up and placed into a lineup. I feel bad for them and the way they’re placed into rows like four-legged soldiers. Tourists get onto their backs and each horse plods its way out onto the worn hilly paths. They’ve done this route too many times. Their drooping heads look like my heart.

Amak has denied and changed the name given to her. The one that represented our long-dead auntie. The auntie who laughed easy and taught us that life was good. The one who told us that residential school was in the past and what mattered was now. The one whose name I wished I had the honour of carrying. When we head back to the trailer to wait for the arrival of the millionaire, I ask her why the name change. She just shrugs and says her new name made her life easier. I walk next to her with my head down and feel such a sadness spread over me.