His concentration was absolute, walking tall in this modern street that was only a dream in the sleep of an earth gone mad. He felt his power come from the earth and the air and the trees that lined the street. And when the snow fell on him, each flake was a whispered prayer, a tiny, perfect piece of the earth’s secret that caressed him like a mother, stroking his face, the wind singing to him as it howled through the wires.

It was standing in front of him. But its attempt at Katie was poor. She had a bullet-hole in the centre of her forehead that oozed black blood and was clutching the dead Jess, her delicate brown throat cut open in a red grin, like a sack of rags.

He could see that there was no back to Katie’s head, that it had exploded in shattered pieces of bone and brain where the bullet had exited. But there was no bullet. No bloody head.

‘Sam!’

It was barely able to keep the illusion of flesh, and as he walked past unmoved the blackness swirled in anger at the shaman’s calm demeanour. To be in this state of purity, this continuing prayer that let him go unseen, was to be impervious to its tricks.

The thing that was not Katie slumped against a day-glo poster for Silver Celebrity Ski and the black blood that caked the back of the head smeared the paper like melted chocolate.

Sam Hunting Wolf turned the corner and started up the hill towards home. A house on the corner burst into life as a couple said their farewells to friends and, with a sleepy toddler in their arms, walked down the drive towards their car.

Neither the man or woman noticed the big dark man who passed inches between them on the sidewalk as they put down the little boy and fussed with the baby-seat.

A small fist rubbed tired eyes as the four-year-old child stood on the snowy sidewalk waiting for its transport to take it back to a warm bed. The boy looked up and Sam turned around. He looked straight into Sam’s eyes.

‘Mommy. Look at the man!’

His mother looked in the direction the small finger was pointing. Sam Hunting Wolf stopped. His heart raced with love for that small white boy, a boy who could see what he should not see. The white man was lost only because he chose to be. The boy would be trained to be blind soon enough, to believe his TV more than his eyes and heart.

‘There’s no one there, sweetheart. Come on, get in.’

Sam’s shoulders tightened. He turned away and, without looking back, walked on. Which is why he never saw the child wave happily at him from the back of the car as he slipped round the corner and walked boldly up his street.

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