Guardian's Guard: An MM Bodyguard

Romance (Alden Security Book 3) Joy

Danvers
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Guardian's Guard
Alden Security Book Three

Joy Danvers

Danver's Publishing
Copyright © 2024 by Joy Danvers

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact hello@joydanvers.com.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and
products is intended or should be inferred.
 Warnings

This story contains violence, serious illness, PTSD, and mentions of off-screen death. Please put your mental health first
always. Love, Joy
Also By Joy Danvers:

Shafter Falls Series:

Waking Wyatt
Protecting Paul
Hearing Hank
Betting Brett
Alden Security Series:
Soldier's Savior
Singer's Security
Guardian's Guard
 1

Jacob

“Y ou’re poisoning us!” I shout, my arms outstretched to show I’m unarmed. Security guards armed with mace and attack
dogs stand just past the plant’s main gate. Behind me, other protestors from the reservation stand tall against the blazing
New Mexico heat with signs in hand and chants on their lips. The Calmer Co. plant is a dull, stark gray amidst the
striped, pine-topped mesas, rolling grasslands, and distant jagged peaks of the Colorado mountains that are our home. Since its
construction two years ago, this plant has stood here on the edge of the reservation, so cold and artificial in a place where the
land beneath our feet hums with an innate energy. When it was first built, it was just a blemish on the land, but now? Now, they
have become a parasite, a disease, a threat. How many more of my people will die because of this industrial tumor? I want to
strip it down piece by piece until any hint of its existence is erased from history.
“Our water isn’t safe!” My people echo my cry, joined by protestors from the nearby town who draw from the same water
source. “You’re killing us!” Beside me stands my best friend, Atsa Chavis, and his sister, Ajei. Both of them have signs of their
own and shout with angry fervor.
Atsa is tall and lean, fit from a lifetime of playing sports, and he has his long black hair up in a bun to keep it out of his face.
The two of us went through college together, him on an athletic scholarship and me on an academic one - the number of times
people mistook us for each other solely because we were both Navajo men with long hair was honestly sad. And then, while I
went on to graduate school, Atsa returned home to learn pottery from his family so he could help pay for Ajei’s college tuition.
His sister is whip-smart and the one who jumpstarted all of this, citing protests like the Dakota Pipeline in 2016 and how we
are the ones who must raise our voices if we ever want to be heard. She’s shorter than her brother by about a head, and while
her hair isn’t as long, she still wears it back in intricate braids along with a red cloth headband over her forehead. They both
wear tank tops and jeans, but while Atsa has a plaid long sleeve tied around his waist, Ajei boasts a sleek black leather vest
with chains hanging looped off one end. They both nod at me, faces ablaze with determination, and I feel my chest swell in
righteous validation. We’re here for the sake of our people and our future; it’s empowering.
Just then, the guards part to reveal a tall, balding Caucasian man with cold eyes and a severe expression. He stops at the gate
and raises an eyebrow at me until I grit my teeth and approach. “Jacob Sanchez,” drawls the plant manager, Frank Montgomery,
after offering me a polite smile. “We could make this all go away so easily if you would just cooperate.”
“Oh, but that would be too easy on you, Montgomery,” I laugh. It’s not the first time this man has offered me money to go
away. “Then all of this would just be swept under the rug, and none of the Dinè would get justice for all the deaths and pain
you’ve caused.”
The man scowls, then clears his throat. “While Calmer Co. has no connection to these deaths you claim we are responsible
for, it would also be good to remember that without evidence, you have no ground to stand on. All you have right now are
empty accusations that will never hold up in court.”
“Guess we’ll just have to keep this up until we find evidence then. Cause I know it exists,” I shoot back, which seems to
irritate him, judging from the scowl on his face.
He straightens his shoulders and looks down his nose at me like I’m the dirt beneath his shoe. My fist itches with the urge to
punch that look right off his face. “Take this too far, and we can easily make your life miserable. How long until your people
need to start working at my plant? If you stop now, maybe I’ll be generous and let them work as minimum-wage laborers.” He
smirks smugly.
“My uncle is in the hospital with cancer because of what you bastards did to our water,” I growl. Despite the day’s heat, the
words roll off my tongue like shards of ice. “I’m not backing down until this shitty plant of yours is shut down for good.” I lean
forward, cheek almost brushing the metal bars of the gate. “And when that happens, you better run like hell and take all your
polluting chemicals with you. Your company messed up doing this here, Montgomery, and this time, they can’t solve the
problem with money.”
His smirk falls away. “You’re going to regret this, Sanchez,” Montgomery warns.
A half-feral smirk tugs at my lips before I can stop it. “Give it your best shot, jackass,” I hiss. And then, after witnessing how
the security guards track the protestors with hard eyes and tighten their grips on their batons, I say, “We’ll be back tomorrow
with reporters. Make this big enough, and there will have to be an investigation.” Montgomery narrows his eyes into a stony
glare as I step back and get Atsa’s attention.
My friend lowers his sign after shooting Montgomery a suspicious look. “What’d he say?” He asks, leaning in close.
“Classic big-name evil corporation threats,” I scoff while rolling my eyes. “But things are gonna get violent soon if this
keeps up - I think we need to regroup, make some phone calls to the closest news outlets so this gets the attention it needs. You
know nothing will happen if we don’t get more people from outside the reservation interested.”
We round up the rest of the protestors and explain the plan while we put some distance between ourselves and the plant’s
trigger-happy guards. Some try to argue, but Atsa helps me convince them until everyone loads into their vehicles and heads
home for the day. Ajei claps me on the shoulder as we approach our own trucks, tugging her older brother in by the elbow and
smirking when he gives an offended grunt. “We’ll give the local news stations a call, so you just say hi to your uncle for us,
okay?”
I nod, smiling. “Will do. Thanks you two for all the help today.” Ajei gives a jaunty salute, and Atsa just waves me off with a
grin before declaring he’s driving. The two of them bicker and playfully shove each other around as they race for Atsa’s beat-
up old truck. I just shake my head fondly as I get into my own weathered blue Toyota and head into town.

***

Uncle Bidzii is asleep when I arrive, the steady beep of the heart monitor and the uneven rise and fall of his chest assuring me
that while he’s not better, he’s also not worse. I pull the chair in the corner of the room over to his bedside and sit down, taking
in his sunken features, cracked, dry lips, and frail figure. For someone who was always so big, so full of life when I was young
and still angry and grieving the loss of my parents, it feels unreal seeing him here on this bed, a shadow of himself. His chest
rattles with each wheezing breath, and his head is shaved clean. The lung cancer is thankfully still in stage one, but I could tell
it was still a devastating blow for him no matter how much he tried to hide it when the chemotherapy started making his hair
fall out. His hair was something he had great pride in, showing me how to care for mine as I grew it out because I wanted mine
to be just as long as his, wanted to have something in common with the man who saved me from the foster system—saved me
from myself. He never married, never had kids, always said I was enough for him.
I squeeze his hand and pray that it’s still true, that I’ll be able to see all of this through and make him proud. “Love you so
much, shidá’i’,” I whisper. Tears burn along my eyes, but I blink them back. It’s been so hard not to feel like I’m drowning -
drowning in hospital bills, in responsibility, in this constant overwhelming gratitude toward my uncle and everyone else on the
reservation who took me in and loved me like I was their own when I was eleven. Fifteen years later, and I finally have the
chance to pay them back for it all. I can’t fail. The rest of my visit is spent in silence, hoping that my presence will soothe some
of his pain.
Leaving the hospital, I head home, only to realize that my fridge is sparse and my jug of water is nearly empty. Ever since we
realized that it was our river - a little tributary leading into the Rio Grande - making us sick, we’ve had to resort to spending
money on bottled water and those big plastic jugs they keep on the back shelves of the store. It feels like a knife to the chest
each time I purchase one, each time I walk past my sink faucet and don’t use it, but I know that if I get sick, then there will be
one less person to look after my Uncle Bidzii. One less person to make sure Calmer Co. pays for what they’ve done.
It’s a quick ten-minute walk down to the store, and it’s not even dinner time yet, so I slip on my shoes and head over,
enjoying the warm hues of the sunset that drip across the mountains as I go. The store isn’t that busy, and I greet the cashier with
a nod when I approach the register with my items. With a bag of groceries in one arm and a jug of room-temperature water in
the other, I set off for home so I can check in with Atsa about any word from local reporters.
Only a couple blocks from my apartment, a shiver runs down my spine and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I pause
near an alley and look around carefully, but can’t find any sign of someone watching me. The street is practically devoid of life
since everyone’s gone home for the evening.
Hands wrap around my mouth, and I’m dragged backward into the alley while my groceries spill across the sidewalk. I bite
down hard, wrenching myself free when my attacker releases their grip with a cry of pain, and then I whirl around to face the
three men who have jumped me. They’re big and burly and definitely thugs hired by Montgomery to take care of me because the
one blocking the entrance to the alley has a crowbar in hand that he smacks against his meaty palm. “Why dontcha make this
easy for us and just come with us quietly? We’ll only smack ya around a bit in exchange, yeah?”
“Wow,” I intone flatly. “Such decorum. I might swoon.” I lunge, slamming thug number one into the wall and kicking away
the crowbar when it clatters to the ground. A fist to the jaw catches me by surprise, and I stagger to the right, narrowly avoiding
the third thug who tries to grab me. I sock him in the gut, pleased when he slumps over slightly with a groan, but a noise behind
me reminds me there’s no time to gloat, and I turn around just in time to receive a baseball bat to the side. My back hits the
wall as my side throbs with a deep set ache, and I feel the brick tear at my shirt while I cough. The second thug goes to swing
again, but I use my slender frame to my advantage and dodge to the side before balling my fist and nailing him square in the
throat. He’s down for the count, gasping and wheezing, and I quickly snatch up the bat and crack it over the head of the third
thug so that he’s down, too. The first guy’s recovered by now, and he gets in a punch to my face before I knee him right in the
crotch. The whimper he lets out as he sinks to the ground is immensely satisfying. Tossing the bat aside, I limp toward where
my groceries are still strewn about and gather them up. My lip burns, blood leaking from where the first thug caught me on the
mouth and split it. I’m dizzy, my knuckles smart, and everything aches, but I take one last look at the men, spit a glob of bloody
saliva in their direction, and then make my way home.
After stumbling into my apartment and locking all the doors and windows, I grab an ice pack from the fridge, pressing it to
my bruised jaw while I collapse onto my living room couch. I pull out my phone and dial Atsa’s number. “Some of
Montgomery’s thugs just tried to kidnap me,” I tell him the moment he picks up.
“What?!” The other man screeches, and I pull the phone away from my ear with a wince. “They tried to kidnap you? Are you
okay?”
“A little bruised up, but yeah, I’m fine.”
“I’m coming over right now. Don’t go anywhere, or else.” Then, without any more fanfare, he hangs up. I sigh and resign
myself to a late-night interrogation, making myself comfortable on the couch and reaching for the tv remote while I wait for
Atsa to arrive.
Twenty minutes later, Atsa is on the couch beside me, inspecting my jaw. My shirt is off, and he’s got my first aid kit out
beside him, having already treated the rest of my scrapes and bruises, the one where the bat got me being the worst. Already,
it’s turned a sickly shade of purple. He gives a sigh of relief when nothing seems broken and pats my shoulder. “You’re lucky,
Jacob. That could have gone a lot worse if you hadn’t gotten away in time. Maybe...maybe you need to pull back from the
protests.”
I glare at him. “You know I can’t do that. My shidá’i’ is in the hospital because of him!”
He throws up his hands with a stricken expression. “But what if next time they really do hurt you? What if they kill you?”
“If I back out now, that’ll be just what that snake Montgomery wants!” I snap, frustrated.
He pulls out his phone, and immediately, I’m suspicious. “What are you doing?”
“Friend of mine works at this place up in Colorado called Alden Security. They’re ex-military and provide pro-bono
bodyguards for people who need them. I’m calling in a favor because I am not letting you risk your life like that again.”
“You’re not serious-! I don’t need a bodyguard, Atsa!”
But the phone is already ringing. There’s a click as someone picks up on the other end, and Atsa gives me a pointed smile.
“Marcus? Hey man, yeah, it’s good to hear your voice, too. Listen, I need your help with something...”
I throw up my hands in exasperation and storm into the kitchen so I don’t have to listen to this conversation. What kind of
activist has a bodyguard? Slumping over the counter, I groan. My shidá’i’ is going to be so disappointed when he hears about
this.
 2

Seth

I get the call from John and David, heads of Alden Security, at six am, right as I’m about to eat breakfast. A new job, they tell
me: Tensions over environmental safety have increased between a small community of the Navajo Nation and a Calmer Co.
chemical plant down in northwestern New Mexico. I’ve been hired to protect one of the protest’s leaders. “He was attacked
last night,” John explains. “Managed to fight them off, but it’s clear that the man responsible, Frank Montgomery, isn’t messing
around with this.”
“Probably means he’s hiding something, but in the meantime, just get down there and keep an eye on Jacob Sanchez, alright
Seth?” David’s voice calls out from somewhere in the background.
John hums his agreement into the phone. “Marcus will forward you the address and the rest of the info - it was Jacob’s friend
who called us, so he’s the one to talk to if you’ve got more questions.”
I nod. “Sounds good, I’ll head out in thirty.”
“Good luck, Seth, and keep us posted.”
A smile crosses my face as I head toward the bedroom to pack a bag. “Will do, thanks John, David.” The call disconnects,
and I get ready to leave, shooting Marcus a quick text to get the address. I sigh when I pull it up on my maps app and see that
it’s nearly ten hours away. This is gonna be a long drive.
The shift from Colorado to New Mexico is gradual. Green pastures and hills covered in pine trees give way to swooping
juts of colorful striped cliffs and shrubby grasslands where cows continue to graze in peaceful tandem with horses. It’s
strangely beautiful. There are also more trees than I expected, although growing up in a military family meant jumping from
place to place, so I should have learned by now that the American landscape is full of surprises.
It’s a little after four-thirty when I arrive at the small town plugged into my GPS. With a population of just under two
thousand and houses and storefronts that are a mishmash of adobe-style construction and bleached-out wooden structures, it’s
not anything impressive. However, there’s still something to be said for the atmosphere as I trundle down the road with my
windows open, watching people in friendly conversation on the streets. I’m nearly at Jacob Sanchez's house when I begin to
ponder what he’ll be like. Loud? Nerdy? Someone ready to graffiti every free wall in town for the sake of justice? There isn’t
much in the file since it’s such a last-minute assignment, just the bare minimum facts like name (Jacob Sanchez), sex (male),
nationality (Navajo), age (26), and education (Masters in environmental science at the University of Colorado Boulder).
Only a few years younger than me, and he’s already done more than I could ever manage when it comes to school. Fresh out
of high school, I’d garnered a special cocktail of disappointment and pride from my uptight dad when I chose to go straight into
the Navy rather than use it as a way to pay my way through a college degree I didn’t want. He passed away shortly after, still
disappointed in me. If not for David and John, there’s no telling where I would have ended up after my deployment in
Afghanistan. I shake the thoughts away and renew my grip on the steering wheel, following the GPS until I reach the right
address. It’s a two-story apartment complex, but Jacob’s place is on the ground floor. I park along the curb outside, grab my
duffel bag, walk up the cracked sidewalk to the front door, and knock on wood covered in chipped, peeling white paint.
“Good afternoon, my name is Seth Roberts, and I’m the guard sent by Alden Security,” I recite as soon as the door swings
open, only to pause when I’m greeted by an attractive, albeit scowling man. His skin is a coppery shade of light brown, and
there’s the hint of a dimple in his cheek when his mouth flexes at the sight of me. His black hair is up in a loose, messy bun, and
he’s just got on a pair of jeans and a worn black Green Day t-shirt with sleeves that hug muscular biceps. I’m about a head
taller than him, but something in the sharpness of those eyes contrasted with the softness of his features makes his presence
bright and difficult to ignore.
He looks me up and down, raises a bored eyebrow, and says, “You’re the guy they sent to protect me?”
It hits me that this man and Jacob Sanchez, my client, are one in the same person. He’s slender and pretty, not what I was
expecting from a protest leader, and it slips out before I can stop it: “You’re Jacob Sanchez?”
His already sour expression curdles like milk, arms crossing over his chest defensively as he tilts his head and eyes me with
the kind of disdain one would aim at a cockroach in the house. “The hell’s that supposed to mean, jackass? So sorry you have
to waste your time in this little slice of nowhere, but it’s not like I wanted some stranger following me around everywhere
either.”
Defensiveness swirls hot and ugly in my gut, and my mouth twists into a sneer to hide the disappointment. Did I really spend
ten hours in a car just to be stuck for an indefinite amount of time with some asshole who doesn’t even want my help?
I straighten my shoulders with a glare. “Yeah, well, like it or not, I’m here to stay until the job is done, hot shot.”
He scoffs and turns away, flipping me off in the process. “Whatever,” he snaps, moving into the living room. Deciding it
doesn’t matter if I wait to be invited in, I walk up the steps and cross the apartment’s threshold before shutting the door behind
me.
It’s small, with a dark brown couch that’s seen better days, a rickety coffee table in front of it, and a TV hooked up to the
wall populating the living room in front of me. Books of all sizes and shapes, as well as several knick-knacks of Native
American design and others, weigh down a bookshelf standing against the wall next to the TV. A small dining table sits off to
the left next to a window flanked by three mismatched chairs, and framed photos decorate the wall above the breakfast nook.
Behind that is the kitchen and pantry, with cabinets painted a soothing light blue shade. Between the living area and kitchen is a
hallway that presumably leads to the bathroom and bedroom. The walls are a drab beige color, as are the plastic blinds that are
shut on all the windows except the one over the kitchen sink, relying on a tall lamp by the couch to light up the space.
I watch him go to the hallway closet and pull out a sheet, a blanket, and a spare pillow. His movements are stiff as he returns
to the couch and meets my gaze while dumping them unceremoniously on the cushions. I mutter a short ‘thanks’ and set my bag
down by the foot of the couch, knowing I’ll be the one to set up my temporary “bed” later. But Jacob still hasn’t moved, and his
glare slices into me.
“I don’t need a sheltered white soldier boy to protect me; I’m just fine on my own.”
‘Sheltered’ and ‘soldier’ aren’t two words that go together, and I immediately bristle. “Maybe I don’t want to babysit some
naive activist who thinks he can change the world, but I guess we don’t all get what we want,” I tell him, pitching my tone into
a condescending drawl.
His glare is scathing like he’s trying to melt my eyeballs out of their sockets. I glare back, undeterred. He opens his mouth but
then seems to reconsider and shuts it before opening it again. “This is just until the protest is over, and now that you’re here,
I’ll be sure to work fast. The sooner you’re gone, the better.”
Silently, I agree with that statement with a nod.
Later, Jacob emerges from his room with a thin jacket over his t-shirt and a pair of sneakers on. He whirls his key ring
around one finger and pockets his phone as he heads for the front door. I stand.
“Where are you going?”
He narrows his eyes at me and pauses with one hand already on the handle. “The store,” he says curtly.
“Is that safe?”
“Well, when I went shopping yesterday, I wasn’t expecting to have to cook for some freeloader,” he says, voice practically
dripping with false pleasantry. “Looks like they didn’t bother to teach you basic manners or common sense in the military,
huh?”
Every modicum of self-restraint that I learned during my time in the military goes up in smoke. All that’s left is the insistent
need to lash out to get the last word. “At least I’m not the one who needs someone else to fight my own battles for me,” I sneer.
Jacob whirls around and grabs me by the collar, pulling me down until our faces are just centimeters apart. His breath is hot on
my skin, and his eyes blaze like the setting New Mexico summer sun that streams in through the kitchen window blinds. “You
have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” he growls, the sunlight a halo around his head that reminds me of the stained
glass windows in my mom’s old church. “So how about you just shut your mouth and do whatever you’re here to do, and I’ll
pretend you don’t exist - that way, we’re both happy, deal?”
I roll my eyes, which I note with sharp delight, only pisses him off more. But then, knowing John and David will give me the
“disappointed dads spiel,” as Marcus calls it, if I mess up a job on the first day because I can’t play nice with the client, I nod.
The walk to the store is uneventful, although I notice at least four men scattered along our route who try and fail to subtly
watch Jacob as we walk down the street. Two more go by in a car at least three times before I make eye contact with the driver
and watch as he pales and speeds away. If Jacob notices, he doesn’t say, but something in the way he carries himself, a
stiffness that doesn’t feel related to my presence, makes me think he does.
When we leave the store, the sun is almost completely set behind the horizon, and Jacob is struggling to carry two large jugs
of water as well as a few grocery bags.
“Are you going to help or just keep watching asshole?” He bites out, embarrassed and annoyed but unwilling to admit he’s
struggling.
“Thought you were pretending I didn’t exist.” A smirk plays on my lips as he visibly seethes with frustration. Then, just to be
nice, I take one of the jugs and the bags with the frozen meat and the chips and salsa.
“Why do you need so much water anyway?” I ask after we walk almost three blocks in tense silence, curiosity burning at the
fringes of my self-control.
“Because Frank Montgomery is a slimy bastard who refuses to admit that his chemical plant poisoned our water, and the
police aren’t gonna do shit ‘cause he had them bribed the second the plant went up.” He spits it out with so much venom his
body shakes with the force of it. “Also, my friend Atsa is coming over for dinner. He’s the one who called you guys.”
I make an acknowledging hum. The rest of the walk back to the apartment is in silence again, but it feels more settled than
before.
Back at the apartment, Jacob busies himself with preparing dinner and tidying up while I update John and David on the
situation. About an hour later, there’s the click of a lock at the front door, and I’m already on my feet, taking note of where
Jacob is still puttering around in his room, firmly set on ignoring me. The door opens to admit a Native American man with
wavy waist-length black hair pulled into a ponytail and a wide smile on his face. “Honey! I’m home!” From the bedroom, I
hear Jacob groan loudly, but the smile he’s wearing when he comes out to greet the newcomer practically transforms his face,
and the two hug before the man turns to me. He beams with eager anticipation, undeterred by Jacob’s flat look, and Jacon
relents with a sigh and introduces us.
“Seth, Atsa. Atsa...Seth.”
I snort. “The enthusiasm is really overwhelming me here. Can you maybe take it down a notch, hot shot?”
“Shut the hell up, jackass,” he says without looking at me.
“Aw, I can already tell you guys are like two peas in a pod,” Atsa croons teasingly, but then his expression sobers. “Also,
Jacob, bad news.” Beside me, Jacob tenses. “Ajei and I made those calls - turns out Montgomery’s already bribed or
threatened all the local news channels to scare them off our protest.”
Jacob swears, some of it in English and some in a language I didn’t recognize, and Atsa squeezes his shoulder placatingly.
But then Jacob reigns in the anger, and an intense determination replaces it. It feels significant when he simply states, “Then
we’ll do it without them.”
After dinner, Atsa says goodnight to us both and leaves with the spare water jug in hand. Once I’m sure the apartment is
secure, I get ready to sleep. Jacob side-eyes me from his bedroom door as I finish laying out my blanket. I look up. “You need
something, or am I just that handsome?”
He scoffs, but I catch a flush on his cheeks as he grumbles, “As if. Just making sure you’re done locking down the house.”
“Yeah, I am, but you still need to be careful. There are people watching you.”
“Fuck them,” Jacob declares. Something like admiration swells in my veins. “They’re gonna have to try harder than that to
scare me off. Now shut up and go to sleep. We’ve got an early morning.” He shuts the door behind him.

***

It’s the familiar - if grating - sound of Jacob’s voice that keeps me from decking him when a pillow to the face wakes me up.
“Up and at ‘em, sunshine!” He sings gleefully as he tosses the pillow at me and then waltzes into the kitchen, where he
proceeds to make as much noise as possible while getting things out of the pantry. After sorting through the unwelcome rush of
adrenaline, I shoot him a glare. It isn’t even light out yet, the blue numbers on the microwave boasting the ungodly time of 4:30.
Jacob is humming to himself and making what looks to be a sandwich. His hair hangs down his back, unbrushed, and his
clothes are still rumpled from sleep. The sleeve of his tank top has slipped off his shoulder, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of
his collarbone, and his shorts hug the tops of his thighs in a way that makes me want to run my palms along those lean muscles
and revel in the warmth of his skin. I force my gaze up just as he glances back at me with a disdainful frown.
“If you think I’m making you a sandwich, soldier boy, the answer’s no. Now hurry it up, why don’t ya?” The heat in my gut
abates, my eye twitches, and I remember this man pisses me off.
“Whatever,” I growl, already gathering my things to get ready. “I’m using the bathroom.”
“Don’t take too long, or I’ll leave you behind!” Jacob calls after me. I make sure to slam the bathroom door extra hard
behind me.
 3

Jacob

I t’sCo.5:15 am by the time my truck trundles up to join the collection of other vehicles haphazardly amassed outside the Calmer
plant’s front gates. Atsa is standing at the back of the crowd, all of them armed with signs, water bottles for drinking as
well as a quick way to wash pepper out of the eyes, and megaphones this time. “You’re late!” He calls, waving us over.
I jab my thumb at Seth, who stands tall and as scowly as ever beside me. “Blame frowny-face over here. He’s slower than a
sloth when waking up. You’d think time in the military would help him learn to pick up the pace a bit.”
Seth scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s tall and broad, and his black hair compliments the blue of his eyes in a
way that I don’t want to acknowledge because that would mean admitting I find a pain in the neck like him attractive. I force
myself to look away before I end up staring at how his biceps flex with every minuscule movement. “I got ready in five
minutes. You were the one doing your hair.”
I run a hand over my braids, making sure to swing my head just enough that they smack him in the face. He gives a
disgruntled huff and frowns harder if that’s even possible. “Yeah, well, if you had more than an inch of hair, you’d understand
the importance of style, army man.”
“I was in the Navy,” he shoots back flatly.
“Good!” I declare, rising up on my toes so that we’re at eye level. Atsa watches this all with clear amusement. “Then when
those asshole guards try to power-wash us with that hose they think we can’t see,” I nod my head toward the gates where the
guards in question have resumed their early morning posts, “I’ll make sure you’re on the front lines so you can get some watery
nostalgia.”
He just clicks his tongue at me, that dark gaze as alluring and condescending as yesterday, and I let out a muffled shriek of
frustration. I barely resist the urge to pull at my hair - a habit my uncle had worked hard to discourage when I was younger
because it was important to care for our hair, not harm it. “God, you’re insufferable! I’ll let them pepper spray you first!” I
don’t even know why I have the urge to poke him like this. I know he doesn’t like me, but I can’t figure out why the idea of that
bothers me so much. While Atsa pats me comfortingly on the shoulder, something in Seth’s stance changes, going from arrogant
and obnoxious military man to strictly-business military man in a snap. Like he’s just remembered the stakes, or rather, the
threats that are here, especially the ones aimed at me. It’s attractive, not that I will ever admit it aloud.
“You usually stand at the front, right?”
I bristle at his tone, eager to find any reason to verbally rip into this infuriatingly hot yet annoying man, but Atsa cuts me off
before I can even start. “Yep! It’s usually me, Jacob, and then my sister, Ajei, who are the main ones up front. It kind of gets
jumbled after that, but the guards tend to focus on Jacob anyway since he’s the figurehead of all this.”
He motions us forward, and the crowd parts to let us through. I see several people from the town, although the majority of the
crowd still consists of members of our community, including many of Atsa’s relatives. One woman dressed in high-waisted
jeans, a crop top, and a leather vest with a bandana to hold her hair back spots me from near a cluster of Atsa’s cousins and
weaves through the bodies to reach us, throwing an arm over my shoulder and pulling me in close.
“Yá át tééh, Jacob! I was beginning to wonder if you were still coming,” she laughs.
“Yá át tééh, Aunt Chooli,” I grumble good-naturedly, my cheeks burning at the knowledge that Seth is watching this. Her
bright gaze quickly finds him, however, and she pins him with an assessing look.
“Is this a reporter?”
I shake my head. “Until the rest of the country gets its shit together, we are the news. This is...a friend.”
“It’s nice to meet you, my name is Seth,” the other man replies, suddenly the epitome of polite.
Atsa’s aunt gives me a light chiding smack on the head for my language, but she seems pleased by whatever she sees in Seth.
“My name is Chooli. Thank you for coming to help support our cause, Seth.”
 “Of course,” he nods. “This is important.”
She beams, then waves goodbye to us and Atsa and goes to rejoin her sisters.
“Suck up,” I mutter to Seth once we’re moving again, irritated that he pretended the cause was important to him.”
“At least I’m not infamous for being late,” he drawls with a smirk.
My eyebrow twitches, and I throw my hands into the air. “That was your fault!” Seth opens his mouth to reply and I feel my
blood surge in anticipation, strangely thrilled by the easy way in which our personalities clash, in how he can give as good as
he gets.
“Alright, alright, you two, stop flirting now; we’ve got things to do,” Atsa chirps over his shoulder. Seth gives an indignant
frown while I fake a gag at the insinuation that any of this is flirting. Ajei is there, hair tied back today in bright, sunflower
yellow. Her phone dangles from a lanyard around her neck, safe inside a clear but waterproof plastic pouch. She has an armful
of cardboard signs with handles glued onto them, and she’s quick to divvy them up between Atsa and me. Her face lights up
with teasing delight when her eyes land on Seth.
“You must be Seth right? I’m Ajei, Atsa’s cooler and better-looking younger sister.” Atsa produces a dramatic, wounded
gasp at that, which Ajei ignores. They shake hands. Seth is as cool and polite as he was with Aunt Chooli. “And since you’re
here, you’ll need this.” Ajei shoves a new sign into Seth’s hands without ceremony, and I can tell by the tilt of her grin that
she’s especially proud of this one. I lean over to read it as Seth does the same and burst into a loud cackle at the dubious
furrow of his eyebrows when he realizes what it says. ‘Put up or shut up: clean our water!’
“Did Grandma Doba see this one yet?” I ask, and she sticks her tongue out at my knowing grin.
“Nope, and she’s not going to, but if she does,” she points at Seth, who balks at the sudden playful intensity of her glare,
“then you’re the one who made it, got it?” Seth rolls his eyes, but nods nonetheless, and Ajei claps him on the shoulder
cheerfully. It’s only because we’re still standing side by side that I notice the way he flinches beneath the unexpected touch.
Noting but dismissing it, I wave them all forward. “Come on, then, let’s get into position.” We do, and soon we’re face to
face with a line of guards through the low iron gate. Finally at the front, I breathe deeply to center myself and gaze out across
the land as a reminder of why we’re doing this. No amount of thugs, pepper spray, or hoses will be enough to drive me away.
Much to my irritation, Seth sets up shop right next to me. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. That tank top
and jeans do little to hide the definition of his muscle, and a part of me wonders what it would be like to have those hands on
me while the other wants to scream at him for distracting me like this.
“Can you not stand so close?” I snap.
“That would be...inadvisable considering I’m here to keep you safe.”
“Ooh, big words, big man.” I snort when his jaw clenches. “Also, I don’t need your protection.”
“My presence here says otherwise.”
“Your presence ticks me off, asshole. Besides, I’m not even the one who made the call.”
“You should write dissertations on great comebacks. You’d really change the world then,” he drawls.
It takes every shred of restraint in my body to not respond to that. Instead, I hold up my own sign, one that reads, ‘You’re the
poison, not our water!’ and join in on the chants Atsa and the others have started.

***

The sun crosses the horizon and I do my best to ignore the man next to me. Seth refuses to move more than a couple of feet
away from me. He watches the security guards with hawk-like scrutiny and continues to hoist Ajei’s sign high above his head.
It’s when a new shipment truck arrives that things start to escalate.
I lead the protestors in fully blocking off the gates so that the truck can’t enter, all of us shouting and chanting in a mass of
immovable bodies. It’s loud and hot and exhausting, even with those among us who bring bottles of water over from their
vehicles every so often, so I don’t notice the guards are moving or that the gates have opened until Seth is a wall of muscle in
front of me as he blocks an incoming baton. Screams fill the air, and I lose sight of Atsa and Ajei as the guards move in on the
protestors with terrifying ferocity. Pepper spray hisses, and I pull one man out of range, then I kneel down and pour water in
another woman's eyes, one I recognize as a neighbor when I still lived on the reservation, as tears stream from her red, irritated
eyes. My hands shake, and suddenly Seth is there, removing the bottle from my hand as he takes over with smooth efficiency,
reassuring the woman until her sister is able to pull her to safety.
It’s mayhem, it’s chaos, and then the hose is unleashed.
An icy torrent of water knocks me to the ground and separates me from Seth. Water fills my nose, and I choke on it, coughing
hard and desperately trying to shield my eyes from the worst of it so I can see. The spray moves away from me long enough that
I can stand on shaky legs. It’s a fight to regain my bearings, my vision still blurred, and stray limbs and bodies tangle across the
ground, tripping me with every step. The gate is at my back, and everywhere I look is a mess of water, people, and mud. It’s so
loud; even when I blink away the last of the water, I still feel too disoriented, like I’m disconnected from my body. I slip. My
shoulder slams into concrete, and I breathe through the pain as I force myself to my feet again. Someone shouts my name, but
then there’s a guard in front of me, his helmet visor pulled up so I can see the wicked gleam in his eyes when he pulls out a
small black object from his belt. I spot the metal prongs and realize what’s about to happen. Terror lances up my spine, thick
and suffocating in my throat. I can’t move.
Behind me, Ajei screams.
A large hand wrenches me back by the arm, and I lose my balance. Electricity crackles from the end of the taser, missing my
drenched side by a centimeter as I crash to the ground hard. “We saw you!” Someone screams. “We have a video! Murderer!
You tried to kill him!”
Without warning, hands are everywhere, grabbing me and pulling me back to safety. “No, wait!” I shout, struggling to free
myself from their grasp. I can’t leave now, not like this. I need to be up at the front, strong in the face of danger, just like our
ancestors. I need to make my family proud; need to protect them and the land we were blessed with the way I promised I
would. There’s a cry of pain, and I catch a glimpse of Seth yanking my attacker’s arm behind his back until he’s forced to drop
the taser, which Seth kicks away. His eyes are ablaze, and he’s utterly ruthless, but despite everything, I can only think of how
beautiful he looks. Then, he swings out a leg and takes out another guard who is going after a fleeing Ajei, her phone in her
hand from where she had been recording everything.
He spies me on the ground amidst the throngs of protestors, something like fear on his face, and roars, “Get him out of here!”
“Wall!” Atsa cries from nearby, his voice like a clap of thunder. “Form a wall!” My people join together, locking arms after
me and holding firm against the onslaught of the guards’s attacks. Ajei is at my side then, looking frazzled as she and a friend’s
uncle help me to my feet. While clearly terrified, the triumph in her eyes is unmistakable as she pockets her phone and slings
my good arm over her shoulder. The crowd ushers us through, urgency and concern in every glancing swipe of a hand along my
back or worried frown upon their lips. Atsa joins us soon, too, and he’s a firm presence on my other side.
“Seth?” I ask, peering up at him. He cranes his neck back, anxiety visibly shifting into relief.
“He’s alright. Behind us, but he’s coming.” I nod and lean my head against Atsa’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, self-resentment and guilt writhing uncomfortably in my gut.
There’s a moment of silence, an acknowledgment of my emotions, and then Ajei is tapping me on the cheek with her pointer
finger. “Don’t apologize.” Her expression is soft and understanding. Atsa’s too. “We love you, dingus, and we want you safe.
This isn’t something you have to do alone. We’re all here with you.”
I sigh but nod. “Yeah, I know. I love you guys, too...I just feel like there’s all this pressure to succeed and to keep everyone
safe.”
“No matter how this turns out,” Atsa offers, “we’ll be right there with you.” His smile turns into a mischievous leer as he
waggles his eyebrows obnoxiously at me. “And now you’ve got a fearless knight in shining armor on your side, too!” I shoot
him a disgusted and disdainful look, furiously shoving away memories of Seth bowling down that guard just to keep me safe.
This is his job, after all; I shouldn’t attach to much meaning to it.
“Fearless and hot,” Ajei adds with an impish grin, much to my despair. I splutter and try to shove them away from me, but
neither sibling allows it. They laugh, and eventually, their joy is too infectious, and I can’t help but laugh a little as well as we
leave the rioting crowd behind. Even though I still feel dizzy, my body aches, and my wet clothes chafe against my skin as I
retreat to safety, I know my people are still fighting that I have people supporting me no matter what. It dulls the sharpness of a
battle lost - not all the way, maybe, but enough.
 4

Seth

M ycrowd,
heart is pounding in my chest. The racing staccato echoes in my throat and skull as I push my way through the rioting
eyes never leaving Jacob's silhouette as Atsa, his sister, and other members of the tribe rush him to the safety of
their vehicles. Each time I blink, I see Jacob frozen in front of the guard etched onto the darkness of my eyelids, about to be
pumped full of thousands of volts of electricity. Murderer, someone had screamed, and I wanted to shout the same because after
being doused by the hose only a minute before, an attack like that would’ve killed him. For all that the man drives me up a wall
and makes me question all my life decisions, I definitely don’t want him dead. It’s clear, however, that Calmer Co. does, or at
least Frank Montgomery does, and I know now that I’m fighting an enemy willing to do whatever it takes to win. It’s a familiar
sort of battlefield, even though it’s one I’d hoped never to return to.
The chaos reminds me too much of blood and explosions and ash, a choir of screams that fills my ears and resonates with
those of the friends I lost, but I block it out, push it down, and keep my gaze trained on Jacob’s braids and Ajei’s bright yellow
headband. They’re nearly to the cars now, and I’m nearly free from the crowd. Beside me, the woman from earlier, Jacob’s
aunt (or Atsa’s aunt?), Chooli, appears. Her mouth is set in a grim line, and she greets me with a stern nod. Then, she’s parting
the crowd, her presence alone doing more than my own intimidating height and demeanor together, and I welcome the help as
we rush toward the legion of parked cars.
“Will they be okay?” I ask, glancing back at the protestors who shout and stamp their feet and sing with the ferocity of a
hurricane.
“My sister Dezba is in charge now,” Chooli answers. “They’ll stay as long as they are able, and they’ll keep each other safe.
The Diné are stronger together.”
She ushers me toward the truck that Atsa and Ajei are helping Jacob into, and the part of me that’s still restless, still trapped
in that fight or flight mode of battle, has me instantly gravitating to the man I’m assigned to protect. Atsa just nods at me, clasps
my shoulder in a quick expression of thanks, and moves aside so I can clamber in after Jacob. The back of the pickup is
cramped but not painfully so. Ajei produces a blanket from somewhere and tucks it around Jacob and me with a knowing smile,
forcing us to sit in even closer proximity. The clamminess of Jacob’s skin is startling. I glare at her but only receive a smirking
grin in return, one that’s mirrored in the rearview by her brother from where he sits at the wheel. They’ve both got sweatshirts
on, and he cranks the heat up as the truck trundles down the road with Chooli’s car and another man driving Jacob’s Toyota.
“So, how was the nostalgia?” Jacob teases with a drowsy smile. Confused, I pause, but then he says, “Remind you of the
ocean?” Right, the “watery nostalgia,” as he’d put it earlier. I remember the water hose. The taser. Nothing like the ocean. At
the front of the truck, the radio crackles with static that sounds too much like lightning between metal prongs, and I force myself
to focus on those deep brown eyes and skin that, while cold, is still flushed with life. It’s fine, he’s fine, you didn’t fail.
I cock my head, pretending to think about it, then shoot him a grin. “Nah, not salty enough for me.”
Jacob snorts, and a little smile that I find helplessly endearing sprouting on his face as he smacks the back of his hand against
my chest. “Next time, I’ll be sure to bring some salt, just for you, Seth.” It sends a thrill down my spine to hear my name roll off
his tongue in a tone that’s almost fond rather than annoyed, but I do my best to hide it behind an obnoxious hum. We fall into a
comfortable silence then, Jacob looking like he’s doing his best to avoid dozing off.
“Thought I was the bane of your existence?” I can’t help but ask a minute or two later, unable to forget how he said my name
and the warmth it inspired. He glances up at me, then away, watching the scenery pass by the window while he thinks of a
response.
“...No,” he says eventually, voice soft. “You might be an asshole, but you’re tolerable, I suppose.” Our eyes meet. I want to
drown in the depths of his eyes. “And you saved me, so thanks for that. I appreciate it.”
My heart flutters against my ribcage, and I clear my throat, choosing to look out my own window so I don’t have to face the
intensity of his attention. “Yeah, well, I’d be a pretty shit bodyguard if I let you die on the first day of your protest, wouldn’t I?”
That garners a chuckle from not only Jacob but also the two in front who are unashamedly eavesdropping.
A little over twenty minutes outside of town, we take a turn onto a dusty gravel road and head along a dip between two
shrub-laden hillsides that opens up into a flat expanse of land near the base of an orange-hued mesa. The reservation’s
buildings sprawl out in erratic clusters across the land, spaced more and more apart the further they are from the center plaza
area. I can see dirt roads connecting them together like veins. Trees dot the landscape amidst fenced-in sections of pasture and
crops, although they clump together like a dark scar across the earth along the edge of a riverbank that runs a few miles or so
out past the start of the reservation. Telephone poles bearing the weight of a single black wire rise up between houses. Some of
those houses are scrappy imitations of the classic wooden and plaster homes I saw back in town, while others made from
adobe brick sit low and sturdy amidst cacti and patches of dry, brittle grass.
People mill about as the vehicles pass the sign and the main gate marking the edge of the reservation land. Most of them are
working, moving throughout their houses or shops that have the windows open to let in the occasional breeze. Some are stoking
outdoor fire pits in preparation for dinner time or taking advantage of the late hour in the day to relax beneath spots of shade
provided by porches or trees. A group of kids weave in between houses, kicking a soccer ball back and forth while a lean
black dog barks and gives chase each time the ball switches feet.
The windows are rolled down, and those who aren’t too busy with their designated task take a moment to wave at us as we
drive toward the town center. Eventually, we pull up alongside an adobe-style house with the door and window shutters
painted a vibrant turquoise. This house is bigger than most of the others we’ve passed, and Ajei gives a little cheer once the
truck is parked in the space that’s meant to be a driveway beside it. “Ah, home sweet home,” she sighs. Then she’s bolting out
of the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind her and jolting Jacob from where he’s been dozing against my shoulder. “Dibs on
showering first!” Atsa doesn’t even try to fight it; he just rolls his eyes and gets out of the car. The house next to us is just a few
feet away, and when I open my door, I make eye contact with an elderly man who is quietly sitting in his rocking chair on the
front porch, drinking in the sights and sounds of the town. Atsa starts talking with Chooli and the man who drove Jacob’s truck,
whom he addresses as his Uncle Eric, and I nudge Jacob’s shoulder to wake him up. He produces a petulant grumble from the
depths of the blanket, but another nudge has him sitting up, and I watch, amused, while he blearily fumbles for the door handle
on his side. I snigger, and he flips me the bird without looking back. Where yesterday I would have retaliated in a similar
manner, the familiarity of the gesture and the softness in his movements as clarity is slow to return settles the last dregs of the
anxious buzz that lurks in my bones.
Flower boxes perch on the home’s window sills, a variety of flowers and herbs sprouting up to welcome the rays of sunshine
that spill over the edge of the western mesa. I catch sight of a fire pit behind the house surrounded by cheap plastic lawn chairs,
as well as what appears to be the edge of a garden plot. A crooning melody in a different language spins through the air from
inside when the door opens to reveal a man and a woman who have similar features to Atsa and Ajei and streaks of gray in
their hair. They greet Chooli and Eric, ushering them inside, and I make sure Jacob is safely out of the truck, then follow him as
he joins Atsa at the door.
“My mother, Haseya Chavis, and my dad, Thomas Chavis,” Atsa introduces us. “Shimá, shizé’é, this is Seth. A friend of
mine from school introduced us since he specializes in self-defense, and he agreed to come help keep an eye on Jacob after
what happened on Thursday.”
Haseya Chavis isn’t nearly as expressive as her children, but her smile is warm and her eyelids glimmer with a subtle
amount of gold eyeshadow that brings out the flecks of color in her deep hazel eyes. Thomas Chavis, however, is the clear
contributor to Atsa and Ajei’s sunny disposition because he takes my hand with a wide grin and an eager greeting for both
myself and Jacob. Already, Jacob moves like a weight has been taken off his shoulders, and between the cozy atmosphere of
the house and the familiarity with which he addresses everyone, I can understand why. It’s a whirlwind of relatives before we
finally manage to sequester ourselves in Atsa’s room. Chooli is there with her three children and husband, as well as Atsa’s
Uncle Eric and his wife and two-year-old son. Then, I also get to meet another of Atsa’s aunts, and his grandparents. To say the
least, it’s a very full house.
Ajei is just leaving the shower when we arrive, her hair wrapped in a towel and her clothes consisting of pajama bottoms
and a sweater that definitely seems to be pilfered from Atsa’s closet, which sits ajar. She waves her phone in her hand and
waggles her eyebrows excitedly. “Ready to unleash this gold-star content on the internet whenever you guys are.” Atsa goes
over to peruse his closet for some dry clothes and brings a small pile over to the bed so he can lay them out. The comforter is a
dark green that reminds me of the pine trees littering the countryside out here.
Jacob moves to join her by the desk in the corner of the room where a closed laptop sits on top, but I place myself in front of
him and raise an eyebrow at him in challenge. “No, go shower first. You need it.”
“But we need to upload the video Ajei took,” he insists and tries to edge around me. “The internet is spotty here at best; what
if it doesn’t load? I didn’t stay when I should have, so the least I can do is this!”
His words ring with survivor’s guilt - even though everyone is alive, even though the fight’s not over yet - and something
clenches tight and painful in my chest. I block his path again, unyielding and calm in the face of his mounting frustration. “You
left because that was the smartest decision you could make at the time. It was the right one. Atsa and I will make sure it gets
done, so you go shower.”
“But-”
“Stop being stubborn and go shower before I lock you in the bathroom myself.” This time, I pin him with a stern glare and
watch him shift on both feet, obviously considering his options. Behind me, Ajei has already booted up the computer and is
tapping away on her phone.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” he grouses, but the longing in his posture is undeniable, and the strain around his eyes
convinces me that he’s only putting up a fight for the sake of it.
“Watch me,” I snark back and easily corral him into the bathroom. He groans in protest, but I only leave my vigil at the door
once I hear the groan of pipes and the tell-tale spray of the shower head.
Ajei flashes us a peace sign, computer in her arms, as she approaches the bedroom door. “Well, I don’t need three people to
help me post a video, so I’ll be in the living room. Enjoy your guy time, losers.” Then, she’s gone. I let out a long sigh and run
my hand through my close-cropped hair.
Atsa holds up a shirt, gaze flickering between me and the clothing as he compares our size. “This should hopefully fit around
those massive biceps, and then here’s some sweatpants and boxers for you, too, He-Man.” I let out a soft chuckle at that and
accept the clothes gratefully. A towel is thrown at my head as well, and we both dry off properly and get dressed. Once we’re
done, he sits back down on the bed, then pats the spot next to him, looking up at me invitingly. I sit, and for a few quiet
moments, we just listen to the bustle of activity in the rest of the house and the sound of running water from the shower.
“Hey,” Atsa speaks up from beside me. Our shoulders bump together as he sways in gently and then back out again. I meet
his gaze, and the smile he wears now is softer and quieter, creasing around his eyes, which shine with gratitude. “Thanks for
saving my brother back there.”
I shrug and clear my throat; I never know how to respond to gratitude. “Just doing my job, s’all.”
Atsa hums. “Yeah, I know. But you were just as soaked as he was, and you still went after that guy like you were a bison
ready to gore him.” He wrings his hands together, and there are shadows in his eyes as he confesses, “I thought I was about to
have another family member in the hospital, but instead,” he glances toward the bathroom fondly, laughs a little, “he’s here,
stealing all my hot water.” He shakes his head and pats me on the knee. “Thank you, Seth.”
“Yeah, of course,” I reply. “I just want to keep him safe.”
 5

Jacob

I step out of the shower to a house abuzz with laughter, gentle music, and the scent of fry bread and roast corn. I feel better
now, more settled in my own skin, and although the guilt at leaving the protest lingers sharply beneath my breastbone, I know
that Seth was right before. My shidá’i’ would’ve agreed with him, too, and the thought brings a fond smile to my face as I dry
off.
The bedroom is empty, but there’s a change of clean clothes left out on the bed for me. It’s just a pair of faded blue jeans and
a maroon long-sleeve worn soft by years of use, but they're comfortable and warm, and I send out a mental thanks to Atsa. Once
my hair is brushed and braided down my back, I leave the bedroom and go down the hall. The living room walls are a worn,
soft orange, and rounded wooden beams cross the ceiling. A large, sturdy wood table surrounded by chairs takes up one side of
the room while the other is occupied by a deep blue couch laden with pillows and hand-woven Navajo-patterned blankets
made by Atsa’s grandmother. A recliner fraying at the seams and a plain chair flank the couch, which sits parallel to a low
cabinet with a TV on top. Beside the cabinet is a kiva fireplace, and on the shelf that wraps around its curved face are various
clay pots - either bought from artists or pieces made by Atsa and Ajei when they were kids - and family photos.
Their dog, Ama, yips at me in welcome, licking my fingers until I lean down to pet her smooth tan fur. Grandma Doba leaves
the bustle of the kitchen to greet me. Her voice is soft, and her embrace is fragile, but the love she shares never falters. Aunt
Chooli’s children run past us, shrieking with laughter as they get underfoot in the kitchen, and their mother’s scolding tone
carries from where she’s chopping vegetables at the counter. Their father ushers them outside to join Uncle Eric and his family,
who are chatting out back with Grandpa Kele and grilling what smells like mutton. “Oh my dear hatsóí ashkiígíí.” Grandma
Doba’s wizened features crackle and crease but her eyes sparkle with life as she takes my hands in hers. “How are you
feeling?”
“Better, Shimásání,” I reply. “How are you and Shicheii?”
She brushes a damp strand of hair from my face with a faintly trembling hand. “Better now that my grandchildren are safe
here with us.” Her voice is as sweet as the honey we put on our fry bread. “Dezba called. She and everyone else are fine and
should be back in time for dinner.” That eases some of the ache in my chest, and Grandma Doba seems to understand because
she presses a gentle kiss to my forehead and pats my cheek before motioning me toward the table where Atsa and Ajei sit
looking at her computer. They wave me over, Ajei jumping up to display the posted YouTube video and the increasing number
of views with each passing second.
“We’re going viral!” She exclaims, and I can’t help but grin.
“That’s amazing, great job Ajei.” She practically glows with pride, and Atsa just shakes his head fondly at his sister from his
chair.
“Next time, I’d prefer it if there were a little less life-risking though, please,” he pipes up. “The anxiety’s bad for my health.”
Ajei scoffs. “It’s fine, old man. Now that Seth’s here, we’ve got someone watching our backs. And besides, getting this out to
the world was important.” As the two begin to bicker, I realize that the stoic man in question is nowhere to be seen inside the
house. Irritation and something I refuse to acknowledge as disappointment unfurls in my gut.
“Speaking of, where is Seth? Did he really not offer to help with anything?” I try to act casual, but my tone still comes out
clipped. Ajei shoots me a knowing look, and I turn away, grimacing. Just then, Uncle Eric comes inside with a plate of grilled
mutton and hands it off to Atsa’s mom, who is preparing the roast chili. The kitchen is all warm colors and soft edges from the
adobe architecture as the evening sun filters in through the window over the sink. All four people move in quiet ease with each
other, like a well-practiced dance, as the food is prepared.
Aunt Chooli meets my eyes as she ducks around Thomas who is checking on something in the oven. “Your friend tried to
help, but he has worse cooking skills than Ajei, so we sent him outside.” She motions toward a lopsided lump of fry bread
dough that sits abandoned on the counter on a layer of flour, ignoring Ajei’s indignant cry. My initial irritation withers into
shame at jumping to conclusions so quickly, and I sigh before thanking her. She reaches over to the radio to turn it down and
adds, “We’re nearly ready here. You should go get him anyway.” I look back at Atsa and Ajei, who have reached a momentary
pause in their good-natured bickering, and Atsa just nods his head toward the front door.
I try to edge around Ajei but fail to anticipate the incoming hip-check that she delivers with a cheeky grin. I fake a lunge for
her, then laugh at the delighted shriek that escapes her when she tries to run away but is intercepted by her older brother.
“Traitor!” She cries, but he just starts tickling her, and so I leave the two behind before I’m dragged into the scolding that
will likely occur once they almost break something. Painted clay bowls are nailed in a column on the wall beside the door, one
for each child of the family, starting with Atsa. Mine sits just below his, and it never fails to inspire a rush of warmth and love
when I see how seamlessly I’ve been included in their family. I slip on a pair of neon green flip-flops left by the door -
probably Ajei’s. True to form, something clatters to the ground from the table right as I push open the screen, and the
admonishing tone of Haseya’s voice fills the house as it clacks shut behind me. I flee before I’m somehow wrangled into that
whole debacle and scan the street for Seth until finally, I find him, only to pause in surprise.
He’s seated with his legs crossed on the wooden slats of Shicheii Sani’s front porch, looking up at the elderly man as he
speaks in a low rasp from his rocking chair. Although not my grandfather by blood, everyone addresses him as such because of
how long he has been around, caring for the entire tribe. His family is gone, either passed or living far from the reservation, so
we all take it upon ourselves to visit him and be with him as the years pass. While greatly respected and loved, it’s a well-
known fact that Shicheii Sani has a tendency to ramble, able to tell stories and repeat them for minutes or hours at a time. He’s
someone who expresses his love through sharing, and I feel heat blossom in my face and stomach at the sight of Seth sitting
there, his large, muscular frame folded up into something softer and quieter as he listens to the man’s tales with genuine
attentiveness. It’s an unexpected scene that spreads warmth through my chest.
The clothes he borrowed from Atsa stretch to accommodate his broader frame, fabric tight around toned thighs and biceps.
It’s only maroon sweatpants and a baby-blue short-sleeved shirt, but they’re different from the darker colors he’s worn so far,
and the gentler tones soften some of the sharpness of his features even more. I can’t help but remember the way he grabbed me
earlier, how warm and large his hand was against my skin as he tugged me out of harm’s way. I wonder what it would feel like
to be pressed against him, to run my hands along that lean torso and muscular shoulders. A shiver runs up my spine at the
thought of his breath hot on my neck as he holds me close and whispers in my ear. I want him to touch me, to give me one of
those sharp smiles as he takes me apart. Desire spikes through me, and heat pools in my gut without warning. It takes several
deep breaths and the recollection of the icy hose water to calm down.
Shicheii Sani is the first to see me, calling out a greeting, and when Seth turns around, there is a distinctive flush in his
cheeks. I join them on the porch and take a moment to properly greet Shicheii Sani. “I was just telling your friend here about
what this place was like when I was a child,” he says, offering me a quiet smile. He has on many layers, as well as a shawl
Haseya made last fall. His hands have more age spots than untouched skin, and his thinning white hair is pulled back in a tight
bun. I glance toward Seth, who is still sitting by our feet. The light blue of Atsa’s t-shirt brings out the intensity in his eyes, and
I swallow back a gasp, grasping for words that refuse to come to my empty, distracted brain. His expression morphs into
something a little guarded and a little embarrassed, seemingly interpreting my silence as judgment. Like he expects me to make
fun of him for spending time with an elderly and respected member of our tribe. I just cross my arms, cock my hip, and level
with him a challenging eyebrow, hoping to convey just what I think of his doubts about my character. That seems to settle him
somewhat, and he stands, thanking Shicheii Sani for letting him join him.
“Of course, Seth. You’re welcome here anytime, understand? Now, I smell Haseya’s famous fry bread, so why don’t you two
head in and leave this old man to his musings, hm?”
I laugh, “Yes, Shicheii. I’m sure Atsa or Ajei will be out soon with a serving of fry bread just for you.”
The old man’s eyes light up in delight, and I pull Seth along by the wrist back toward Atsa’s house after we say goodbye.
“We got the video uploaded,” Seth says after a beat.
“I heard; Ajei showed me as soon as I was done showering.” My gaze flickers over to him, helplessly drawn to the other
man. “Nice clothes, by the way.” He looks down at himself before looking back up at me, eyebrows furrowed. His black hair
is ruffled endearingly like he dried it but forgot to brush it afterward.
“What’s wrong with them?”
I shrug with a dismissive hum, glancing him over just to rile him up more. When he starts to seem more distraught than
irritated, though, I take pity on him and shake my head. The tension in his shoulders eases when he hears me chuckle. “Nothing,
nothing, they look fine. Although maybe a little tight.”
“Not my fault Atsa isn’t as buff as me,” Seth says, jutting his lip out in a fake pout that looks bizarre on his normally serious
face. I bite off a laugh. He sighs, dramatic and a little arrogant. “This was all he had that fit - everything else was even tighter.”
I just barely resist the urge to look down to where those sweatpants leave little to the imagination, but Seth must notice how my
breath hitches because his lips twist into a wicked smirk, and he leans in close. His eyes are so, so dark, and the longer I stare
into them, the more I feel like I can’t catch my breath. “Are you bringing it up ‘cause you’re interested, Jacob?” he purrs.
 Blood rushes to my face so fast I feel dizzy with it, and I shudder as goosebumps prickle to life on my skin. There’s no way
Seth misses it, and so, desperate to salvage the situation, I let out a loud huff and try to shove him away. The keyword being
‘try’ because the man is a head taller than me and built like a brick wall and just sways with the motion, the gleam in his eyes
leading me to believe he’s only doing even that much to humor me. “Dream on, asshole,” I tell him, and it takes everything in
my power not to focus on the phantom sensation of his firm chest beneath my palms once I’m no longer touching him. I’m
flustered and overwhelmed and turn away to look down the street instead. Maybe if he’s not in my direct line of sight, I’ll be
able to clear my head enough to be coherent before we have to go eat.
I pause, however, when my attention catches on the house to the right. It looks the same as ever, and my uncle’s garden seems
to be faring well from what little I can see of the plot in the backyard. The wind chimes hung up by the ugly orange door clink
and ring in a soft breeze. I haven’t been inside since moving my stuff to my cramped apartment in town, and a pang goes
through my heart.
“Who lives there?” Seth’s voice rumbles from beside me.
“Aunt Chooli and her family, right now,” I say, memories and words catching in my throat.
“Right now?” Seth prompts.
I nod, then shrug. “They’ve been looking after the house for me while my Uncle is in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry, Jacob...Can I ask what happened?”
“Our river water is poisoned. He was one of the first to get sick a few months after the Calmer Co. plant moved in. It’s how
we realized there was something wrong, but by then, it was too late - so many had already gotten sick, and many have died.”
Tears burn behind my eyes, and a familiar anger wells up inside my chest. I think of the inadequate funeral rites we were
forced to carry out because we couldn’t afford to do the full ceremonies for so many people at once. “We have to waste money
buying bottled water just to drink and cook and brush our teeth because no one gives a damn what happens to us once we’re on
the reservation!” When I meet his eyes again, Seth looks lost and uncertain, and his hand is hovering in the space between us
like he wants to reach out but thinks it won’t be welcome.
I step back and wrap my arms around myself as shame replaces the anger. “Sorry,” I murmur, gaze fixed on my shoes. “I
know you’re just here to do a job. It’s selfish of me to bother you with something that’s not your problem.”
“Jacob-” Seth starts, but then the front door opens, and Atsa emerges with a plate of food covered by a plain blue towel in
hand.
“Shicheii Sani!” He calls, his grin bright and movements animated as he cuts a path straight to his elderly neighbor and hands
him the plate with a flourish. “Special delivery courtesy of my lovely shimá! I think you’ll like dinner tonight.”
Grandpa Sani chortles merrily. “The Chavis family is too kind to me! Give your mother my thanks, Atsa.” Atsa steps inside
the man’s house, bustling about until he returns with a little fold-up tray table, utensils, and a glass of juice, which he sets up in
front of the man’s chair with the ease of long practice. Once everything is arranged as it should be, the two exchange parting
words, and Atsa glides over to Seth and me.
The tension between us has faded, and Seth seems hesitant to bring up the previous topic now that we’re no longer alone. I
avoid his eyes and watch the shift and sway of my Uncle Bidzii’s wind chimes. He turns to Atsa. “Is dinner ready?”
He nods. “Yep! Now come on, I need to get in there before Aunt Chooli eats all the fry bread.”
“How do you eat fry bread?” Seth asks, but Atsa’s already up the steps, so that leaves me to answer.
“I saw your attempt at making it in the kitchen,” I tease him. “You’ve never had it?”
He shakes his head.
“Well, I think tonight we’re using it for a savory dish - kind of like a taco? But it’s also served as a dessert. Put butter and
honey on it while it’s still warm?” I kiss my fingers to my lips. “Mwah, the best thing in the world.”
“Sounds good,” he agrees amiably.
“Good?” I echo. “It’s the best!”
Seth purses his lips doubtfully, squinting at me, and even though I know what he’s doing, I can’t help but take the bait. I
smack his arm and launch into a tirade about the superiority of Navajo food compared to the processed shit that Americans eat
daily. We follow Atsa inside, and I pretend not to notice how his gaze shines with amusement as he watches me gesture wildly
with my hands while I talk.
 6

Seth

D inner is hectic and busy and loud, and I’m surprised how comfortable I am with it. Introductions happened while Jacob
was in the shower earlier, so I’m relatively familiar with everyone now as we help put the finishing touches on the food.
Chooli’s sister came waltzing in through the front door just a few minutes after all the adults had managed to cram themselves
around the dining room table. More chairs had been pilfered from Jacob’s uncle’s house, and once Atsa’s grandparents and his
parents were seated together on either end of the long table, it became a contest to see who would get a normal seat versus one
at a corner. I end up in a corner seat, with Jacob on my left as we sit with our backs to the front wall and its large window. It
makes me a little uncomfortable to be exposed like that, but I had a good look around when I was outside earlier, and this
seems like an unlikely place for danger to strike. Mr. Chavis is to my right. Everyone greets Dezba with relief and joy and a
barrage of questions, which she fields naturally as breathing as she weaves past the children who have yet to take their own
spots around the coffee table in front of the couch. Grandma Doba and Grandpa Kele are served first as she tells us that the
police showed up not long after we left. So it became a reluctant procession of people unwilling to get arrested this early in the
protest who made their way back to town or the reservation.
“We’ll be back out there bright and early tomorrow morning, and I heard that the Ramirezes are planning on pitching a tent. I
think the ‘camping out’ stage of this protest is gonna start soon,” Dezba says excitedly as she scoops some roasted corn onto her
plate. The husbands are over with the kids, ensuring they have everything they need - and in some cases, that the meat is cut up
into neat little easy-to-chew squares - before they return to the table. Everything smells delicious, and the radio continues to
croon a mix of Native American and Spanish songs from where it’s perched on the tiled island in the kitchen.
Dishes are exchanged between hands and passed across the table without order. The kids screech at each other and complain
to their parents, who respond with patience and resignation over the mess that must be cleaned up later. Ajei and Atsa are
arguing about something and even devolve into a spoon battle at one point before Grandpa Kele chides them into reluctant
obedience. Laughter rings out loud across the table between Dezba - who is seated between Eric and Chooli - and Thomas
while Chooli and her husband discuss a neighbor’s latest venture in rug weaving with Haseya. Eric’s wife, a quiet woman by
the name of Diana, shares a few words with Grandma Doba from her seat at the far corner of the table, where they watch the
chaos unfold with loving exasperation.
I watch Jacob retrieve the plate of steaming strips of meat and ask what kind it is “Mutton. It’s pretty common here,” Jacob
says as he puts a few slices onto a piece of fry bread alongside some roast chili. He passes me the plate before Ajei can snatch
it from him, and I copy his actions, adding the meat onto the fry bread and just half a slice of chili pepper because I know my
limits. “Fish and seafood is a big no-no amongst the Díne, pork’s kinda rare depending, and chicken really varies from family
to family these days.” I hum and accept a bowl of what looks like blue mush from the other man next. He snorts quietly at the
wariness in my expression before I have a chance to hide it. “That’s Tanaashgiizh or Blue Corn Mush. Ajei hates it, but Atsa
loves it, so just take a bit and add your tally to the metaphorical board after dinner.”
I tilt my head and eye him. “Do you like it?” He grimaces and gives a subtle so-so gesture where it can’t be seen beneath the
table. That makes me raise my eyebrows in bemusement, but still, I take some and hand it off to Thomas.
The roast corn is delicious, seasoned to perfection, and crisp with just a hint of smokiness that has me longing for seconds
before I even finish the rest of my food. Uncle Eric basks in the table’s praises for the juicy tenderness of the mutton, which
goes well with the spice of the chili and the contrasting sweetness of the fry bread. “Bááh dah díníilghaazh,” Thomas tells me
about halfway through dinner in an attempt to teach me the Navajo word for fry bread. I know I butcher the pronunciation, but
everyone seems to appreciate the effort, even Jacob, so I keep repeating it in my head in the hopes of remembering for the
future.
Haseya is the first to question me, asking how I know Jacob and what I do for a living. The dog tags around my throat clink
when I lean forward to grab my glass and take a sip of water because my mouth has suddenly gone dry. “Well, a couple of
friends of mine from the military connected me with these guys who’d started up a security business in Colorado. I work as a
sort of freelance security guard there, and so when Atsa gave us a call after Jacob got attacked the other day, I came down to
keep an eye on him.”
“And thank God you did,” Chooli chimes in from across the table, obviously thinking of what had happened during the
protest today.
I nod. “He attracts trouble like a magnet.” Beside me, Jacob bristles indignantly, and I shoot him a quick smirk when I catch
his glare out of the corner of my eye. Before he can say anything, though, Ajei, on his other side, pats his shoulder.
“It’s true, shinaaí,” she tells him, and although it’s clearly teasing, something in him softens at the Navajo word, and I make a
mental note to ask what it means later.
“What do you do for fun, Seth?” Dezba asks. I don’t show it, but having all these eyes on me is nerve-wracking, and I hum,
thinking back to the sketches I’d draw on spare pieces of paper and napkins during my unit’s time at camp between missions.
My high school art teacher had pushed for me to apply for art scholarships back when I’d still seen college as something
feasible, but my dad had quickly shot down those dreams, citing the lack of a “real future” for artists.
“I draw a little, but I’m not very good. Otherwise, I go jogging or hiking.”
“Lots of lovely hiking in Colorado, I’m sure,” Thomas chimes in. “Between all our mountains, you could go backpacking for
days!” I nod but don’t mention that the concept of backpacking has lost most of its appeal after my time in Afghanistan. Not
when lugging a rucksack on your back through the desert highlands is accompanied by the risk of getting shot or blown up at
any time.
“You mentioned the military: can I ask what part?” Eric speaks up from further down the table.
“I served in the Army for a while, but after my unit got pulled out of Afghanistan, I switched over to the Navy and served
there for another two years before my contract ended. Going to college at twenty-eight didn’t feel like something I could do, so
I took this bodyguard job about six months ago.”
“And we’re glad you’re here,” comes Haseya’s soothing pitch as she passes the plate of mutton down to her mother and
father. “I’m sure your uncle will be glad to know you have someone here to keep you safe in his stead, Jacob.” Jacob ducks his
head, a strained smile on his lips as he nods faintly.
Something twists in my stomach at the sight of him so obviously uncomfortable, and so I cast my gaze around the table to the
members of the Chavis family. “Could you tell me more about the protest? Jacob mentioned the plant poisoned your river...?”
Dezba is the first to speak up with a heavy sigh. “We don’t have any concrete proof, but several members of the tribe, as
well as our animals, have gotten sick or passed away after drinking the water. It’s clear the plant is the culprit. We think
they’ve been dumping illegal chemicals in the water, but they refused to claim any sort of responsibility when we raised our
concerns. It has been very taxing on our limited funds to purchase containers of water each week, and this rainy season hasn’t
been especially kind, so we we’re getting desperate.”
“Several families have already left the reservation,” Chooli continued, her expression dark. “Jacob’s uncle, Bidzii, was a
well-known environmental activist back when we were your ages, so Jacob got the idea to start up a protest and force Calmer
Co. to take responsibility. With enough attention on them, they’ll have to go through a formal investigation, and Frank
Montgomery will finally get the justice he deserves.”
“He already tried to bribe me, and when that didn’t work, he just tried to get rid of me,” Jacob scoffs. He tilts his head, and I
catch a glimpse of the bruise on his jaw that’s now tinged with yellow. “He’s smart and slippery, and he’s ruthless. Even if
Ajei’s video gets the public on our side, he has control over the town’s police force. We’ll need to be careful and be ready for
whatever tricks he might have up his sleeve.” There’s a murmur of agreement following his declaration, and I admire the
steeliness of his gaze as he ruminates on the future’s uncertainties.
In the background, the song on the radio changes, and Haseya takes that as her cue to redirect the conversation. Soon
everyone is chattering away, swapping stories about the children’s latest antics and the tribe’s latest gossip. It’s a warm, fun
atmosphere that feels foreign compared to the memories of family dinners during my childhood. My father was a stoic, strict
man who viewed dinner time together as a social expectation to be fulfilled rather than enjoyed. We would eat the food my
mother painstakingly prepared each night under the weight of stilted conversation and scathing commentary when something I
had said or done that day failed to meet my father’s impossible standards. It was a draining experience, and I dreaded it every
time without fail. When the food was finished, I would gladly escape to the kitchen to do the dishes in my mother’s stead just
for a chance to be away from that flinty, disappointed gaze. But here, there’s no pristine tablecloth or set number of utensils to
go along with the salad versus the main entree. Even when Ajei bumps Atsa’s elbow on accident and makes him spill a
spoonful of the blue corn mush Jacob warned me off of, no one gets angry. There’s a mild scolding from Haseya, but the smile
on her face softens her tone, and Atsa wipes up the mess with a napkin and a cheeky grin that garners more laughter from the
rest of the family. It’s strange, but the good kind of strange, and I feel myself relax for the first time in a long, long while.
Beside me, Jacob still stares off into the distance, and I nudge him with my shoulder. He blinks, then frowns at me. “I like
your family,” I mutter, fighting down a flush at how revealing even that brief statement feels. Jacob starts, but a slow smile
spreads across his face as he watches everyone eat and talk freely.
“Yeah, me too.” His smile fades, though, and his voice is barely a whisper when he says, “I don’t want to lose this.”
My hand squeezes his knee under the table. “You won’t,” I reassure him. He gazes back at me with his fathomless eyes, and I
swallow. “I’ll make sure of it.”
A smile chases away the fear on his face as his expression brightens and goes warm, like a campfire. “Thanks, Seth,” he says
and turns to answer a question from Atsa. I sit there and eat another bite of the mutton and fry bread. The spice of the chili
buzzes in my mouth, but it’s a pleasant kind of burn that I can tolerate for the sake of good food. Thomas has settled a little bit,
not as boisterous and loud as he was at the start of dinner, and I’m keenly aware of how close his arm is to mine since I’m at
the corner of the table.
He turns to me, eyes glittering with a soft sense of joy. “It may just be a job for you, but I’m glad you’re here. We all are.”
His voice rumbles low, and the laugh lines around his mouth deepen. “Jacob’s a strong man, but he’s never really been able to
forget the past. He feels like he has to pay us back for loving him when loving him was the best gift we could have ever gotten.
I’m glad he has someone now who can keep an eye on him when we can’t.”
“Of course, Thomas. I’ll keep him safe.” I glance toward Jacob, who throws his head back in a laugh at something Dezba has
said. Thomas places a hand on my forearm, and I fight an instinctive jolt.
The man’s stare is intense, and his expression is somber when I turn. “I appreciate that, Seth, but I want you to keep yourself
safe too, understand?” It’s more than I expected, a conflicted sort of warmth filling my chest at his show of consideration.
When was the last time someone that wasn’t John or David put in the effort to tell me I mattered, that I was worth their care?
My limbs buzz with restless energy like I’ve been plugged into an electrical socket. I want to jump out of my chair and run for
miles until the adrenaline’s faded, and all that’s left is the heavy, exquisite exhaustion of pushing my body to its limits. “Jacob
forgets a lot that he’s not alone. Something tells me it can be the same for you.” Sorrow swirls in his eyes like cream poured
into black coffee. “Now that you’re here, you have us - for whatever you might need. You’re part of the Chavis family now, for
better or worse.”
I draw my shoulders back and give one firm nod. A part of me wants to do more and let all the churning emotions pour out in
a verbal cascade, but I know if I do that, then I won’t be able to stop, and the thought of bearing my soul in such a way
paralyzes me. Thomas seems to understand, though, because he just smiles, pats me again on the arm, and then focuses on his
wife. She watches him launch into a thrilling and exaggerated fishing tale from his youth with so much love I have to look
away. I return my attention to Jacob, finishing my food as I drink in the sight of him talking and joking with his family. Maybe
this job won’t be so bad after all.
 7

Jacob

A fter dinner, we help clean up. It turns out that while Seth can’t cook, he does wash dishes with the efficiency of someone
who’s worked in a kitchen before, and when I ask, he admits that he used to work at a restaurant back in high school for
extra cash. People begin to go their separate ways once everything is cleaned and put away. Uncle Eric heads home with Diana
and their son George while Atsa’s grandparents head to bed. Uncle Tahoma offers to take the kids home so that Dezba can
discuss the events of the day with her sister. She gives him a kiss on the cheek and tells her kids she’ll be over soon to read
them a bedtime story, and then the three whirlwinds are off, dragging their patient father with them. Ajei and Atsa are back in
his bedroom blowing up the air mattress that Ajei sleeps on when she’s back from school - although her brother ends up giving
her the bed half the time anyway because he’s a pushover like that.
I drift out the back door, staring at the ground that’s more dirt than grass on this part of the reservation. The sun has set almost
entirely behind the dip of a distant hill that shifts into a striped orange and pink mesa formation. Dogs bark, and kids’ laughter
mingles with the bleat of sheep as the town settles down for the night. It’s familiar and comforting, and the world drips with
soft colors like the watercolor paintings one of our tribal elders enjoys making. My gaze is inevitably drawn over to my uncle’s
house. Uncle Tahoma has the blinds drawn in preparation for bedtime when I cross the space between the houses.
I stop underneath the shoddy wooden trellis Uncle Bidzii cajoled me into helping him build not long after I moved in with
him. There are four of them altogether that stand over the paths between the four different garden sections - an excessive
number, in my opinion, but my shidá’i’ refused to accept that there could ever be too much of something in his beloved garden.
One section is primarily for vegetables, another for fruit, and the third for herbs that can be used in cooking or traditional
medicinal remedies. Between Tahoma and Haseya, the garden has continued to thrive in my and my uncle’s absence, and I blink
away the burn of grateful tears. Each plot of tilled soil is fenced off behind cheap chicken wire, with either side of each trellis
firmly entrenched in a different plot so that they’re all connected. I asked my uncle once if it was okay for some of the plants to
mix together like that, but he just gave me a crooked little grin and told me sometimes life grows best in chaos. Wind chimes
and strings of beads and feathers hang down from the wooden beams of the different trellises, and I reach up to run my fingers
over a strand of glass beads hanging from the herb trellis that Uncle got for me when I was fifteen.
“I put my tally under “not a fan” for the blue corn stuff,” says a voice behind me, and I can’t stop the grin that blossoms on
my face.
“I’m gonna tell Haseya,” I threaten, poking my tongue through my teeth cheekily and furrowing my eyebrows when I face
Seth. As I do, I catch a glimpse of something like fondness on his face before his expression smooths out into its usual
neutrality. He shrugs and continues the conversation like nothing happened, and I wonder if I just imagined it.
He tsks at me. “I’ll just throw Ajei under the bus with me then. And then I’ll tell her you were the one who ratted us out.”
I clear my throat, trying to pretend like I’m not internally reeling, and chuckle. “So essentially, what you’re saying is that
Atsa will be the only winner here.”
“Yep,” Seth says, popping the ‘p’ and shoving his hands in his pockets. His expression reveals nothing, but it feels like he’s
searching for something to say. “So, is this your uncle’s garden or Chooli’s?”
“My uncle’s. I haven’t had a chance to visit in a while, but it’s nice to see that they’ve been taking care of it so well.” Seth
sways around me, and I catch a whiff of Atsa’s cologne as he passes. It’s different from his normal scent of pine and leather,
and I’m not sure how I feel about it. He crouches in front of the fourth plot, where a faded orange sun is painted onto a wooden
stake speared in the dirt at the front of the plot.
“You grow sunlight here?” He says teasingly, eying the cluster of vibrantly red scarlet penstemon. They’re one of my favorite
flowers, and I roll my eyes at him.
“Yeah, genius, I’m a regular sun farmer, didn’t you realize?” But then I sigh and shrug, a little embarrassed. “But nah, my
Uncle likes to say I’m his sunlight, so once he bullied me into actually leaving my room, he set this up for me.”
Seth watches me, curious and a little more serious than before.
“This is my part of the garden,” I explain. “My parents died when I was ten. I was in the foster system for almost a year
when Uncle Bidzii found me and took me in. He and my mom didn’t talk much after she moved away to marry my dad, so he
didn’t find out until a few months after the car crash, but he did everything he could to make this place feel like home for me. I
was so angry at everything; I felt like I was broken, like nothing would ever make sense again. But Atsa and Ajei refused to
leave me alone, and Thomas and Haseya welcomed me into their family without a second thought. Dezba refused to answer me
unless I called her ‘Aunt Dezba,’” I chuckle at the memory. “My uncle was the one who gave me a part of his garden and taught
me how to grow things.” I run my fingers across the soil and pet the leaves of the nearest of Bidzii’s plants. “It helped to know
I was caring for something, that I was helping it grow. Made me feel like I was capable of doing something good and
meaningful.”
The other man is quiet. His large frame looms over the delicate flowers and succulents sprouting in the soil, but he considers
them with an aching sort of gentleness. Then he says, “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. But I’m glad you found people
who clearly love you so much. The way you described taking care of your garden...I used to feel like that when I would draw.”
I glance at him. “But you don’t do it much anymore?”
He shakes his head. “My dad thought it was a waste of time and wanted me to get a business degree or follow in his
footsteps in the military. So I gave up and went overseas as soon as I got my high school diploma.” The self-loathing and
disdain in his voice are threaded through with an undercurrent of defeat that makes my heart twinge.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. He shrugs, but I can tell it’s an old wound, one that still hasn’t healed over even if he won’t admit it
to himself. I show him a pumpkin hidden under a cluster of leaves, and his lips curl up in a little smile. “I think,” I begin, “I
think that gardening and art are the same in that it’s a way for you to connect with the earth and the world around you in a new
way. Artists are incredible in the way they can bring ideas to life, the way they can visualize those connections between people
and the planet.” I move over a little more to inspect another row of plants. “The Díne have a special connection to the land, and
my uncle wanted to show me that while also helping me heal,” I tell Seth. “This fight with the plant is so important to us
because we’re the caretakers of the earth. It gifted us with food and water and a place to build our homes, and so it’s our duty
to take care of it and protect it in return.”
Seth grunts as he kneels down in the dirt beside me, getting a closer look at the plants growing up the makeshift trellises.
“I’ve never really thought about it like that before. I grew up in the city, and then I was in a place where you prayed a bomb
would only hit a section of farmland or a river rather than the village full of civilians nearby.”
“I can’t imagine what that had to be like,” I admit, sympathy twisting in my heart.
“It sucked ass,” Seth says bluntly, and I snort before I can stop myself. But he’s not offended, seems a little more at ease
even, and I’m glad I can do something for him after everything he’s done for me.
We consider each other, the evening light bringing out the darkness in his eyes until they glitter like shards of obsidian. It’s
intoxicating, being at the center of his attention, and I’m leaning forward before I realize my body is moving. My jeans dig into
the dirt, and I place a hand on his cheek, waiting for him to pull away. I lick my lips, thrilled when his eyes track the movement,
and then we’re kissing. It’s hot despite the cool night air, and I gasp. He takes advantage of that to slip his tongue into my
mouth, and we wrestle for control. I nudge my knee into the growing tent in his pants and that’s enough to guarantee I win the
battle as he lets out a deep sigh and tugs me in close, large palms cupping my ass.
Fire rockets up my spine, and all I want is to get closer. I map the inside of his mouth with my tongue. I dig my fingers into
his hair and use it to keep him steady as I rock in his lap and kiss him deeper. My back twinges where the bruises
Montgomery’s thugs left are, but I ignore the pain. This is worth the discomfort. Seth’s hand sinks into my hair while the other
dips under my shirt to press against my side like an iron brand. A moan escapes me, but he swallows it with the next kiss. The
calluses on his hands drag delightfully over my skin, and I want to feel them lower where heat is swelling in my jeans.
The wind chimes clatter then, and it’s like I’ve been struck as I remember where we are. I remember my uncle lying far too
still in his hospital bed and my promise that I would fix this, that I would keep everyone safe. Seth is like a fire on the verge of
consuming me, and I want to be consumed, want to be devoured until there’s nothing left but heat and passion and a blissful
emptiness to replace this constant anxiety bubbling just beneath my skin. I pull away, panting, and Seth leans in to press wet,
hot kisses along my neck. Fire rushes straight down to my groin, and I choke on another moan. There’s nothing I want more than
to have this, to let myself be washed away in our combined pleasure. Every fiber of my being longs to kiss Seth breathless and
grind down on him until that careful control of his fractures. It would be a beautiful thing to witness, I’m sure. But I can’t let
that happen, not when there’s so much at risk if I let myself be distracted from what’s most important.
“Seth,” I gasp, “wait.” He pulls back instantly, hands slipping out from under my shirt to hold me over the fabric, and I push
down the part of me that mourns the loss of that warmth.
He’s apologizing, trying to hide the way my rejection surely stings.
“I want this,” I tell him. My hands shake where they dig into his shoulders, and I can’t stand to meet his eyes as my heart
feels like it's started to crack open. “You’re attractive, and even though you infuriate me sometimes, you also make my heart
race in all the best ways...”
“But?” His tone is gentle and low. There’s no judgment, and I feel like the shittiest person ever.
“But...I just, I can’t do this right now.” The words are bitter on my tongue but I know I can’t let my own feelings get in the
way of doing what I need to for my tribe. “There’s just so much going on, so much pressure to see this through, to win, and
there’s going to be eyes on me all the time if Ajei’s video does what it’s supposed to do. I...I don’t want to fuck things up
between us, and I know I’m going to be stressed and obnoxious, and you don’t deserve to deal with that whole shit show.
There’s so much riding on this, and I can’t let myself be distracted.”
“...and I’m a distraction.” There’s a flatness in his eyes that makes my heart stutter against my ribcage. His whole body’s
gone stiff beneath my touch; every movement, even if it's just a twitch of his fingers, is too stilted to be natural.
I shake my head, cursing myself internally for phrasing it like that. Everything is so jumbled inside my head, and nothing is
coming out of my mouth the way I want it to, the way I need it to, but a fraction of that guarded blank mask he wears dissipates
anyway. It’s not much, but it’s something, and I’m grateful for it all the same. I open my mouth to reassure him.
“Jacob!” Atsa’s voice calls from the next yard over. Seth and I pull apart like we’ve been burned, and I carefully avoid his
gaze as I stand and straighten my clothes out because I know the guilt and the longing will overwhelm me otherwise. Seth also
stands right as Atsa comes dashing into view with a wide grin. To his credit, he doesn’t even blink despite it being obvious that
something happened and just bulldozes through the awkward tension that’s surrounded us. “Jacob, news channels from all over
are contacting Ajei like crazy because of that video. We’ve got at least three reporters already on their way from CNN, NBC,
and ABC to cover the protest against Calmer Co.!”
My jaw drops. “Are you serious?” It feels too good to be true that something like this, on a random reservation in the Navajo
Nation, could ever warrant so much attention. I think about the 2016 Dakota Access Pipeline protest and hope blooms
tentatively in my chest.
“Yeah, c’mon!”
And then he’s off. I lurch forward, only to pause and look back at Seth. His face is unreadable, but he motions for me to go
after Atsa. “Go on, it’s fine.”
“But- are we fine?” I can’t help but ask.
He runs a hand through his hair and looks out toward the darkening mesa. “Yeah,” he murmurs. It’s quiet, but there. “Yeah,
this is important, so you go take care of this. I’ll be there in a minute.”
It’s clear he wants a moment alone, whether to calm down or to deal with his emotions, I’m not sure, but I respect the
boundary he’s established regardless. “Yeah,” I say, “okay. I’ll see you inside.” I leave him behind in the deepening shadows
of Uncle Bidzii’s garden and hope that he isn’t lying. This is for the best, I tell myself. I can’t possibly balance a relationship
right now on top of a protest that seems to be getting far bigger than I ever could have anticipated or hoped.
 8

Seth

T ents line the road for a good half mile leading up to the Calmer Co. plant. It’s a mix of people from Jacob’s reservation,
other members of the Navajo Nation who have come to offer their support, and then a wide array of advocates who have
been trickling in from all over the country for the past two weeks. Signs were made, chants created, and banners distributed, all
in the name of the New Mexico Calmer Co. protest and its leader, Jacob Sanchez.
I follow Jacob when he manages to finally pry himself away from yet another news reporter posted up near the main camp.
The bags under his eyes have gotten darker in the last week, and the stress of serving as the face of this protest is obviously
getting to him. He moves like weights have been tied to all his limbs, and he white-knuckles the styrofoam cup of coffee I
brought him earlier from the provisions tent Dezba and Chooli are in charge of. “You should go lay down,” I say, hovering at
his side so I can glare down any other reporters who try to approach for the millionth interview.
“So should you,” he snarks back grumpily before downing the last dregs of his coffee. “Your hair looks like a rat tried to
make a nest of it and failed.”
“Liar, what do you have against my hair, anyways?”
“It looks like every other white military man's haircut. When was the last time you did anything new with it?” I’m about to
respond and then pause. When was the last time I’d had a hairstyle that wasn’t the same close-cropped look? Maybe in middle
school, when my dad was on deployment and didn’t have any real say in how my mom styled my hair.
“You’re right. Maybe I’ll get Atsa to shave my head tonight.”
That’s enough to startle a laugh out of the other man as we approach a line of tents set off to the side of the main road. I’m
glad to see that some of the weariness in his gaze has faded, even if it’s just temporary. “No, trust me, you don’t want him or
Ajei anywhere near your hair. The one time I let him try to cut it back in grad school, I looked like a five-year-old had been
given free rein with a pair of safety scissors. No, the one you want is Haseya.” We pass by the tent where Ajei and some other
members of the tribe have set up laptops and Wi-Fi connections so they can monitor the media coverage around the protest.
I hum, amused, then shoot a pointed look at his own hair. It still looks faintly disheveled from sleeping out here for the past
two nights despite being tied up in a loose bun and being brushed that morning. “Maybe you should ask her to do something for
you too.”
His hand flies up to tug at the bun until it comes loose, worried. “Why? What’s wrong with it?” He runs his fingers through it,
looking for some large knot or other problem, but then freezes halfway through and shoots me a sour frown.
“You dickhead, my hair’s fine.”
A smirk slides onto my face. “Yeah, I’m just fucking with you.”
It had hurt to be rejected, to know that I couldn’t be what he needed in that moment. I tell myself that it’s probably for the best
because I always end up falling too deep too fast. It had worried my mom and exasperated my dad the way I would bring
partners home, convinced after just a few weeks that I was in love and envisioning our lives together in the future. But now
I’ve been forced to take time to think beyond the initial attraction, to acknowledge the lust and infatuation. I’m here because of
the job, yes, but the longer I’m here, the more I’ve come to understand that I want to be here. Atsa’s family is kind, and they
create a warmth that draws me in like a moth to a flame. Not only that, but I feel like I have a purpose again: one beyond
fighting and standing silent and vigilant as strangers go about their day under my protection. And even as I try to push my
feelings down out of respect for what Jacob wants, they haven’t faded, just shifted.
The way I want him has only gotten stronger, deeper, since the evening in his uncle’s garden. There are so many things I want
to say, but every time I grit my teeth and tell myself to just do it, the words get caught in my throat. I want to press bruises into
his strong thighs and suck hickeys along the lean slope of his neck. I want him wrapped around me, fingers in my hair as I pull
sounds of pleasure from that mouth that seems to smile less and less as the days wear on. But more than that, I find myself
wanting to intervene between not only the threats but also the nuisances. The reporters who pester him for over an hour, the
protestors who toe the line between peaceful and violent, the plant guards who watch him with unmitigated disgust and hatred,
I want to make him smile and chase away the anxiety that seems to hound his every thought. But I know that asking for too much
right now will only make him fold under the pressure.
Things have been awkward between us, enough that Atsa’s family has all noticed and tried to provide support in their
individual ways. Haseya took the time to show me the basics of hand-weaving a blanket alongside her mother. They both praise
my attempts endlessly, although the pattern always looks butchered by about three minutes in. Thomas goaded me into joining
him for a tour around the reservation where we spoke about Jacob, my time in the war, his experience growing up on a
reservation, and then all manner of inane, easy things. Chooli taught me how to make fry bread properly, and the pride on her
face when that first piece came golden brown and glistening from the hot fat it was cooked in helped dull the ache in my chest a
little.
Jacob and I haven’t talked properly about it since - a mixture of purposeful avoidance and simply being too busy to handle
anything outside of the protest. But as I watch him walk beside me, greeting members of his tribe as well as strangers who’ve
come to support the protest with a hollow smile, I have to push down the urge to hold him close where no one and nothing can
touch him. I want to make him happy and see him smile real and bright at me for years to come. I want to be the eye of his
hurricane, where he can be safe.
Upon arriving at the provisions tent, we greet Atsa’s mother and aunts and then spot the man himself deep in conversation
with the leader of a group who arrived the day before. He sees us, says goodbye to the other man, and then lopes over in great,
easy strides.
“How’s our ‘Guardian of the Environment’ doing?” Atsa crows as he slings an arm around Jacob’s shoulder. Jacob rolls his
eyes so hard I have to bite down on the urge to tell him they’ll fall out of his head.
“Please don’t call me that,” he gripes. “That’s all Ajei will call me ever since that TikTok started trending.”
The TikTok in question is one that Ajei had recruited me for since I was never more than a few feet away from the protest’s
leader. It had been a few days after the protest started getting the attention it deserved. The video was a close-up shot of Jacob
giving a particularly impassioned speech in front of the plant’s gates about the land and what it meant to his people, how it
wasn’t until the plant moved in that the water became unsafe to drink, how his tribe had already suffered so many unnecessary
deaths and they didn’t deserve more. With the setting sun a halo around his striking figure, it took very little time for the internet
to gift Jacob with the title ‘Guardian of the Environment,’ and although the man himself found it beyond tacky, the name stuck.
Ajei and Atsa were particularly delighted when the tag caught on like wildfire, and they took joy in reminding their friend at
every possible opportunity.
“But it’s so majestic,” I croon. The answering bristle never fails to make me laugh.
“And it’s what kickstarted the go-fund-me so we can actually afford water again, so really you should be thanking us,” Atsa
chips in, much to Jacob’s blatant ire.
He’s mid-rant when we’re suddenly interrupted. “I’m stealing you,” Ajei declares as she beelines into the tent and grabs my
wrist. “I need an artist’s assistance.”
“But-” I try to protest, but Jacob waves me off, a little smile gracing his face.
“I won’t go anywhere, secret service. Atsa can take over ‘tall-and-looming’ duty for a little bit.”
I’m not sure if I should feel offended or not, but Atsa shoots me overzealous finger guns from beside Jacob. Then, I don’t
have a chance to decide how to feel because his sister is dragging me over to the cover of a different tent about twenty yards
away. Once inside, she sits me down amongst a group of teens and young adults who are all focused on drawing up more
protest phrases on pieces of cardboard or poster board to make into signs. “Why am I here?” I ask flatly, dread building in my
stomach.
Ajei sits beside me and shoves into my lap a rectangle of poster board with words written on it. “Just do little doodles on
this one,” she instructs. “Whatever says ‘environmental protest’ to you. We gotta keep things interesting while the news still
cares about us, after all.”
I snort, but I do as she says, and about ten minutes later, she’s putting the finishing touches on her sign and leaning over to
snoop on my own progress. “Holy shit, Seth, that looks awesome.” I frown and raise an eyebrow at her. It says, ‘Poison our
water now you’ve got squatters.’ The ‘o’ in poison is a water droplet muddled into the shape of a skull and crossbones, and the
bottom of the sign is populated by a line of tents and human silhouettes. It looks fine, but I’ve definitely seen better, and I tell
her that. She just shakes her head. “Shut up, you’ve got real talent. This is amazing, and I’m definitely making sure you help me
with all our fancy signs from now on.” I groan.
“I’m literally already here to do a job, Ajei, why’re you giving me more work?”
“Cause I can’t draw, but I know you can. And I also know that if I get Jacob to bat his eyelashes at you, you’ll do anything he
asks, and I will use that to my advantage if I have to.”
“Psh, yeah, right,” I scoff and shrug away the squirming heat that forms in my gut.
She cackles sharply and shakes her head at me. “Oh please, you’re absolutely smitten with the guy. You pretend he annoys
you, but we can all tell it’s just an act. You just enjoy getting on his nerves ‘cause you’re a simp.”
I scowl. “You take that back.”
She laughs even louder, garnering some disgruntled looks from those still working intently on their own signs. “You’re just
mad ‘cause you know I’m right!”
“Well, even if you are, that’s-that’s not what he wants right now, so you should just...let it go.” The hurt creeps into my voice
despite my best efforts, and Ajei’s eyebrows furrow with concern.
“We can all tell something happened between you two,” she confesses in a quiet voice. “You both deserve to be happy, and
normally I’m all for meddling, but Atsa told me this was something you guys probably have to handle on your own...but if you
do need anything, just let me know, okay?”
Once again, I’m blown away by the display of care from someone I’ve only known a short while, but I swallow back the
emotion and nod. “Thanks, Ajei, that means a lot.”
She smiles and pats my shoulder. Then she reaches over and pulls out another sign from who-knows-where. “Okay, now that
that’s over with, do this one too, please!”
I shake my head at her but accept the sign all the same and hurry to work my meager artistic magic before she scolds me
again.

***

After about an hour of indulging Ajei’s whims, Jacob finally comes to rescue me from her clutches.
“Damn, just when I was starting to hope I would be free of your irritating face for the rest of the afternoon,” I call out once he
arrives, just to watch his face twist into a familiar expression of offended indignance. He immediately launches into a dramatic
speech about loyalty and betrayal, and we’re the ones who hired you! From behind him, I catch Ajei waggling her eyebrows at
me obnoxiously, glancing between Jacob and me and obviously thinking of our conversation from earlier. I roll my eyes and
look away, instead smirking up at Jacob. “You guys aren’t paying a cent for my services, so I think I have the right to say
whatever the hell I want.”
Jacob tries to retaliate but closes his mouth after a beat, at a loss. I press the heel of my palm against my mouth to muffle a
snort. When I look up again, it’s to catch Jacob staring at me, but he quickly looks away again, cheeks taking on a faint flush as
he asks me if I’m ready to come check on the rest of the family with him. I agree and stand up, giving Ajei a sharp look and a
reluctant wave. The rest of the afternoon is spent walking around doing checks on those who’ve camped outside the plant for
the past couple weeks, as well as ducking in to see how Atsa’s family is doing.
Toward dinner time, we’re heading back to regroup with Atsa and Ajei when a woman I haven’t met approaches us. She’s
tall and willowy and has the same copper skin tone as many of the Navajo people. Her dark brown hair is done up in intricate
thick braids that wrap around her head in a neat circlet design, and she looks to be in her late forties from the smile lines
around her mouth and the deepening crow's feet by her eyes. I expect her to start a conversation with Jacob, but instead, her
gaze finds me, and I watch Jacob’s attention drift off to the side as she introduces herself.
“Ajei told me you’re an artist,” she begins, and I already feel a headache coming on. Jacob’s posture straightens, and he
turns, eyes glinting with intrigue as he gives his full attention to the conversation. “My name is Hannah Roslyn. I’ve run the
local reservation store ever since my brother moved away. I was wondering if it wouldn't be too much trouble...I’ve been
wanting to see some more color around town lately, and it would be amazing if you could do a mural for me on the side of my
store. It doesn’t have to be anything big or fancy; you can paint whatever you want so long as it’s appropriate, and I’ll, of
course, pay you for your time...” she trails off hopefully.
Both she and Jacob watch me, although the weight of his gaze feels infinitely heavier than hers. It’s clear he thinks the idea is
a good one, and I remember the way he talked about the recent deaths in their tribe, how obvious it is that there’s been a gloom
hanging over the reservation for much longer than when the idea of a protest was created. I knew if I said no, Jacob would
respect that. After our conversation in the garden, this was something that he would know not to press, just like I wouldn’t
press why he chose to let Chooli look after his garden rather than do it himself. He would hide the disappointment, and we
would go on just like we had before.
A pang sounds through my ribcage at the thought of this painful distance between us continuing. Everyone here is fighting for
something important, and while I have a role in all of that, I can’t ignore the restless desire to do more. To prove that I can be
more than the muscle I was hired to be. To prove myself to Jacob and show him that I can support him and the things he cares
about.
So, instead of the refusal I want to give her, I muster up a faint smile and nod. “I-yes, I can do that, Mrs. Roslyn.”
The way Jacob’s face glows makes the uncertainty clawing at my insides worth it.
 9

Jacob

I wake up around four AM, according to my watch. It’s freezing, but some new arrivals on the protest front had brought with
them enough space heaters to populate most of the main sleeping tents, so as long as I arm myself with a pair of thick socks
and several layers before going to sleep, I can usually make it through the night without subconsciously trying to share body
heat with Seth or Atsa, who usually sleep on the mats beside me. It’s so far south that people tend to forget most of New
Mexico consists of mountains - Santa Fe alone is about seven- thousand feet above sea level - and so it’s been crucial to keep
plenty of blankets and sweaters on hand for people coming to help from out-of-state. But enveloped in my sleeping bag, I
realize that it’s not the cold that’s woken me up this time. A noise to my left has me looking over, and I see Seth lying there.
He’s just as bundled up as the rest of us, but there’s a notebook and a pencil he borrowed from Thomas by his pillow. Ever
since Mrs. Roslyn requested he do a mural for the reservation yesterday evening, he’s been sketching out ideas in between
eating, following me around, and was even up late hashing out possibilities by lamplight before Ajei, who’s on his other side,
complained about the light keeping her up. He’s clearly worried about it and putting in more effort than I could have ever
anticipated. I feel bad for ever doubting he would. I can tell Seth is someone who will give his all for something, no matter
what it is. I shake away thoughts of tender hands on my waist and passionate kisses.
There’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows, and I watch him shift restlessly in his sleep as his mouth scrunches up with
fear. Seth usually keeps his face clean-shaven, but he’s been skipping the past few days, and the dark fuzz on his cheeks and
jaw only seem to deepen the shadows that have overtaken him. He groans and whispers something unintelligible, followed by a
hoarse “no.” I whisper his name and keep my touch light as I shake him by the shoulder. Awareness hits him hard, leaving him
still hazy and half-trapped in whatever nightmare or memory has him ensnared, and I’m not fast enough to dodge the hand that
darts up to grab my wrist in an iron vice like a cobra striking. The bones in my wrist grind together painfully beneath the force
of his grip, but I bite my tongue and just say his name again.
“It’s just a dream, Seth. You’re safe. You’re in New Mexico for your bodyguard job at the chemical plant protest. I’m Jacob,
remember? Atsa and Ajei are here too. It’s still early, but we’re all sleeping together in that big tent my tribe set up last week.
Atsa’s been snoring on and off the whole night, even though he won’t admit it. You’re safe, Seth, I promise.”
Seth’s hand loosens, and then he yanks it away like I’ve set the limb on fire. “Fucking shit,” the man groans, blinking away
sleep and watching me with something that’s far too much like self-loathing for my taste. “God, are you okay, Jacob? Did I hurt
you?” My wrist twinges, but I’ve broken my wrist before and know this isn’t anything close to that, so I shake my head.
“I’m fine. You just startled me a bit, but I think that’s fair, given the circumstances. How are you feeling?” I keep my voice
low out of respect for the people sleeping around us, and he seems to notice them for the first time.
“Like shit,” he grunts, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. I sit up, too. His movements are stiff and rigid, and he avoids drifting
nearer to me like he usually does. I miss his touch immediately. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it in anger, and I
resist the urge to reach up and pry his fingers away. Clearly, he doesn’t want to be touched right now, and I need to respect that.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” It comes out as a whisper, and the look in his eyes is fragile and haunted when he glances down
over at my left hand.
“I’m fine, Seth. I’m more worried about you right now, honestly.” The self-loathing gets stronger, and I mentally kick myself
for phrasing it like that. I try to backtrack. “Worried because you were clearly having a bad nightmare. Is there anything I can
do to help?”
It’s still dark out, the barest hint of light just beginning to grace the horizon behind the plant, but I can see enough to know that
all Seth wants to do right now is pretend nothing happened and go for a run to get rid of the anxious energy coursing through his
veins. It’s probably what I should let happen, but another part of me is scared to let him be alone, scared that he’ll sink into the
depths of bad memories while he’s somewhere out of my reach. I’m not sure when I started to care for him like this between
that night in the garden and now, but it’s an undeniable fact that I’ve grown used to his presence, and anytime he’s not hovering
at my side like some relentless brick wall, I feel bereft. I know I can’t let myself be distracted from the protest, not when it’s
become so much bigger than I could have ever imagined, but I’m still addicted to him, longing for his touch and wishing I’d
said yes and more two weeks ago instead of ‘wait.’ But this is the path I’ve chosen for myself; I need to accept that and the
consequences that go along with it.
“You could, maybe...show me some of the mural ideas you’ve come up with?” For once, it seems that I’ve hit the right thing
to say, and some of the guarded, haunted tension in his body eases. He reaches out to grab his sketchbook, and my eyes are
drawn to his hands. I watch, concerned, when they tremble against the pages that he tries to flip open. To try and spare him the
worst of my scrutiny, I reach over for my phone, which is connected to a battery pack, and turn up my brightness to act as an
unobtrusive flashlight. The risk of waking up Ajei and facing her endless complaints overpowers my desire to see more
clearly, and so by the weak light of my phone and the glimmering dawn, we pore over the rough sketches he’s detailed so far.
Later that morning, after a quick breakfast of oatmeal and boiled eggs Grandpa Kele brought from his chicken coop, Seth and
I are out on the road, overseeing the organization of the crowd. People are preparing to stake out the main gates once more with
signs and music, while a small group of Díne will be using the funds procured from our fundraising page to purchase more
supplies and food.
“What’s the plan for today?” he asks, scanning the crowd for threats and pushy reporters.
It’s clear the ghosts of his nightmare this morning still haunt him, so I make a split-second decision. “We’re gonna go see my
Uncle today.”
He jolts and pins me with a confused stare that’s far more vulnerable than he would normally allow. It’s what tells me that
I’m making the right decision. “But you- what about the protest? Wasn’t there a new shipment today-?”
I shrug. “It’s fine. Dezba will be delighted to take point on this, and you know it. I haven’t seen my uncle recently, so I need
to go check on him anyway.” Seth seems at a loss for words, so I offer him a reassuring smile and a pat on the arm.
We make a detour to the main sleeping tent so I can gather some things in a drawstring bag and update Dezba and everyone
else on the change in plans. Then, we load into my truck and leave the horde of tents and people behind to head into town.

***

We approach the hospital front desk and sign in. On the way to my uncle’s room, one of his regular nurses stops to say hi to us
in the hall. Ellen is a young Chinese woman a few years younger than me with an older brother who’s been working hard to
support both of them ever since their parents ran off to Vegas several months back. She’s sweet and quiet and has always been
dedicated to ensuring my uncle is comfortable, so I ask how she’s doing.
“I’m alright,” she admits with a wry smile. “It’s been very busy lately, so I can’t stay to chat, but your uncle is awake and
talking right now. I’m sure he’ll be excited to see you!” And then she’s off, full of nervous energy that I attribute to all the long
shifts she must be pulling since the uptick in sick patients.
Seth’s eyes follow her until she disappears around a corner, and there’s a strange expression on his face that only fades once
I give a light smack to his chest. “C’mon, soldier boy, it’s just down the hall here.” He follows, silent and stoic as ever, but his
eyes flicker every which way, and I start to wonder if maybe he’s a little nervous too.
When we enter my uncle’s room, the curtains are pulled back to let in the light and the television mounted on the far wall has
been set to a low droning of sound with the subtitles on. Uncle Bidzii is reclined against a veritable mountain of pillows, and
although he looks as frail as the last time I saw him, the oxygen mask is hanging up by the I.V. stand, unused, and that gives me
more hope than anything has in a long while. “Yá át tééh, shidá’i’!” I exclaim, suddenly so overwhelmed by the giddiness in my
chest that I struggle to keep my voice at a manageable volume. He offers me a familiar smile, his gaze as warm and sweet as
Haseya’s fry bread dipped in honey, and he delivers the same kind look to Seth who stands behind me silently.
“Ah, there’s my biye’. I’ve missed you.” While the term is nothing new, I still feel my heart flutter when he calls me by the
Díne word for ‘son’.
“Sorry, things have been so busy with the protest - but I’m here now! Also, this is my friend, Seth,” I gesture to him as he
comes to stand beside me, and he offers a stiff nod and a polite “sir.” Before any more words can be exchanged, I remember
what I brought along with me. “Oh!” I pull a newly crocheted hat out of my bag and hold it up for my uncle to see. It’s a deep
blue, mint green, and very soft. “Grandma Doba made this for you. She says she bargained with Elder Mosi for some Alpaca
fiber this time, but I have a feeling there was blackmail involved.”
Uncle Bidzii’s laugh is weak and raspy, but it still seeps into my bones like sunlight and I smile wide as I hand it over to him.
“Knowing Doba, the possibilities are endless. She likes to pretend she’s a sweet, upstanding citizen, but I remember the way
she would hound the men in her family until she got her way when they were being stubborn. Like watching a TV drama.” That
makes me snort, and I nod.
“Yeah, she’s got a hidden dark side, that’s for sure.”
Shidá’i’ eases back into his pillows with a sigh and gestures for the both of us to sit. I take up my normal chair while Seth
carries one over from the corner, and once we’re both settled, my uncle smiles. “How have you been? Ellen has been showing
me footage of the protest when she has the time.” His face darkens with concern. “Haseya told me you got hurt recently?” I
bring a hand up to my jaw where the bruise from the first attack has faded back into my regular skin tone, only to yank it back
down into my lap when I realize.
“I’m fine. Seth kept me safe and has been watching me like a hawk ever since.” I shoot Seth a playful glare, which, of all
things, seems to make him relax a bit. “Like a bad rash you can’t get rid of,” I drawl.
“I prefer ‘excellent bodyguard,’ actually,” Seth intones flippantly, and I stick my tongue out at him. Uncle Bidzii laughs,
softer this time. He holds out a hand, and I slip mine into his, cradling his bony fingers like I can suffuse them with life and
health again through touch alone.
“I’m glad you have someone to look out for you. That eases much of my worry, I’ll admit.” His expression turns teasing.
“And so handsome, too, like a knight in shining armor.”
I groan, and behind me, there’s a noise that I’ve come to know by now is Seth fighting back a laugh. “Not you, too! I’ll have
you know that Seth is about as attractive as a mushroom!” I slump down in my chair with a huff and glare at both of them,
grumbling, “Knight in shining armor, my ass.” Of course, it’s making fun of me that turns out to be what breaks the awkward
tension between the two men, and soon, the melodic rumbling of Seth’s voice fills the hospital room, taking up space
seamlessly when my uncle struggles for breath or energy to answer as they begin to converse. I’m content to sit there, hand in
my uncle’s and Seth by my side, and just watch them both laugh and talk without a care in the world for the rest of our visit. It’s
nice to see Seth come out of his shell, and it’s nice to see my uncle so energetic after months of what felt like him just slowly
wasting away in this bland hospital bed. My shidá’i’ and I don’t talk much, but I’m not as disappointed as I would expect such
a scenario would make me. Instead, I’m just glad because by the time we leave to let my uncle rest, he’s glowing with
happiness, and the strain that seems to be woven into the very marrow of his bones has almost completely disappeared.
“Thanks,” I murmur once we’re out in the hallway. Seth looks over at me, confused.
“For what?”
“For talking to him, helping him. I haven’t seen him look so much like himself in such a long time. It feels like he’ll actually
be able to beat the cancer now.”
Seth is quiet, lost in thought, and we’re nearly to the front doors when he speaks up again. “So...who was it that called me a
‘knight in shining armor’ before this?”
I shove him away with a disgusted shriek, fully aware of the shit-eating grin that’s taken over his face. Briefly, I think it’s
nice to see him smiling again, to have him close to me again, but then he leans in close, asking if I need him to battle any
dragons for my honor, and I push his face away. “You’re so stupid! Get away from me, you damn mushroom!”
He pursues me out the double sliding doors, crowing all the while about fair maidens and tall towers, and I plug my fingers
in my ears to block out the sound of his voice. His sturdy arm wraps around my waist, pulling me out of the way of a passing
pedestrian, and all I can think about is how defined his muscles feel beneath the dark gray long-sleeve he’s wearing today. My
fingers fall out of my ears, and I find myself unable to say a single word, so caught off guard by the action, and his dark eyes
draw me in before he blinks and seems to remember himself. I nearly go toppling to the ground when he lets go abruptly, a curt
apology cutting through the space between us. It’s fine, nearly slips past my lips, but then I see the stiffness in his shoulders and
how he’s avoiding eye contact and recall that it’s my fault he’s acting like this. So I swallow the words and offer him a smile
that feels more like a grimace.
“Come on,” I say, already scurrying toward where my truck is parked. “Let’s get back before Dezba sets something on fire.”
 10

Seth

A few days after the visit to the hospital Jacob and I are heading the crowd of protestors when Atsa interrupts. We’re right up
against the gates with our signs raised high, although I’m sure to keep a careful eye on every single guard that’s lined up on
the other side as well as the other protestors around us in case Montgomery has managed to buy them off. Ajei has disappeared
into the mob, likely going to retrieve another megaphone, but it’s her brother who appears to take her spot, shouting something
above the chaos into Jacob’s ear. Atsa turns to leave and Jacob motions for me to follow. I hand my sign off to a random
protestor and then grasp his hand before I lose him in the crowd. Thankfully, while he does shoot me a cautious look, he
doesn’t seem uncomfortable, and so I let myself be pulled along through the mass of people until we’re free of it and heading
toward the main encampment area.
Since the land in front of the gates isn’t legally owned by Calmer Co. or this specific plant, Montgomery hasn’t been able to
use his corrupt police force to drive us away and the protest force behind the infamous ‘Guardian of the Environment’ has only
gotten stronger. Since she was responsible for the first video that kicked this all off, Ajei has become the unofficial person in
charge of the protest’s social media activities. Whenever I check my Instagram or TikTok feed, I see that she’s only fueled the
flames of Jacob’s title and its connection to our protest. Honestly, despite all of Jacob’s dramatic moaning, I’m pretty
impressed by how fast she works, and I know he is, too.
“We received word that the EPA is sending a team to launch an investigation. They’ll get here at the end of this week to look
into the plant,” Atsa declares excitedly once we’re in the tent where his family has been helping portion out rations. “Those
bastards will finally get the justice they deserve once these guys find the evidence to prove they’ve been illegally dumping
chemicals.”
Jacob’s frozen in shock, eyes wide and mouth agape. “That’s amazing,” I say, and it’s enough to prompt him back into reality
again.
“It is! Oh my god, this is really happening!” He shrieks and grabs Atsa, who gleefully jumps around with him because even
as full-grown men, this is too big a development for them to contain their excitement. As Jacob begins to ramble about
everything they’ll have to do to prepare, I make eye contact with Chooli, who’s over by a line of plastic folding tables. She
raises an eyebrow and shoots a pointed look toward the chattering man, and a thought occurs to me.
Once he’s run out of steam somewhat and Ajei has joined them to brainstorm, I pull Jacob aside. “I’m really happy for you. I
want to show you something that I’ve been working on as a celebratory gift.” He’s confused but still surfing on the high of
success, so he doesn’t protest much when we say bye to the Chavis family and load into his truck to take a quick trip back to
the reservation. It makes me glad to know he trusts me so much.

***

“I had Thomas or Chooli bring me back for a few hours the past couple of days while Atsa or the rest of the family helped
watch over you. It’s not much yet, but I decided on a final design, and I wanted you to be the first to see it after I laid down the
groundwork this morning.” I’m nervous, and it’s obvious that Jacob can tell from the way he keeps shooting me concerned and
not-at-all subtle looks every few seconds. I have yet to tell him that he’s the first person who’s ever been able to read me so
easily and in such a short amount of time. It’s strange, but the idea doesn’t scare me as long as it’s him. And because it’s him, I
desperately want him to like it. I want my mural to convey everything I haven’t been able to verbalize to him yet.
We round the corner, and when Jacob catches sight of the wall, his breath hitches, and he stops right in his tracks. There’s a
distinct sheen in his eyes, and when he finally drifts closer, he places a hand over his mouth. Everything is still just an outline
with no color yet, but the theme is crystal clear nonetheless. His uncle’s face is the focus of the piece, his new hat placed atop
his head, and a deep smile on his face to reflect the one he gave Jacob in the hospital. The sun peeking over a backdrop of
striped mesas and pastures dotted with sheep, just like the reservation, illuminates part of his face while dipping the rest in
striking shadow. From the nape of his neck comes the winding river, meant to look like the long hair I know he treasured from
conversations with both him and Jacob before it was lost to chemo. The river swirls left around the fading line of his shoulder
to circle an outline of tents and indistinct signs. On the right are native New Mexico flowers I spotted along the reservation
roadside or in his garden when Jacob and I last visited. To finish it all off, classic Navajo weaving patterns line the outer
fringes of the mural so that it looks like one of Grandma Doba’s blankets. I want it to speak of life in the land and hope and
struggle all at once, and I hope it’s enough and that I didn’t somehow overstep by including everything that I did.
When I return my attention to Jacob again, he’s crying, and I start forward, only to pull back when I remember the way he
froze under my touch back at the hospital. However, he seems to have no reservations now because he suddenly turns and
throws his arms around me. He buries his face in my chest, and I slowly bring my arms up to embrace him in return, reveling in
the comfort of his proximity when he doesn’t push me away. “It’s good?” I ask, still uncertain. “It’s not shit, or-or too much?”
Jacob shakes his head violently, smearing tears and probably snot all over my shirt before he finally looks up at me.
“It’s amazing, Seth. This is- this is beyond anything I could’ve ever imagined. I can’t believe your dad ever said this was a
waste of talent-!” Anger blooms on his face, but he pushes it down in favor of glancing back at the mural again. The sight of his
uncle’s face seems to be what does him in, and he smacks a gentle fist against my chest. “The fact that you painted my
shidá’i’...” At a loss for words, he pulls back, overwhelmed in all the best ways.
I shrug and look away, embarrassed. “He’s important to you, and from what I’ve heard from the rest of your family, he’s
really important to your whole tribe, so I figured it would be a safe bet either way.”
“Seth.” Something in Jacob’s tone has shifted. It’s become serious. Determined. And when I look back, his face reflects that.
“The fact that you did this- I don’t even have the words to tell you how much this means to me.” Uncertainty flickers in his
eyes. “And, and I know that I’ve been making things difficult, but I-” He stops and takes a fortifying breath. A flicker of hope
starts to swell in my chest. “This is only if you want to, a-and you’re allowed to say no, but I really care about you a lot, and I
want to kiss you, please?” Jacob stares up at me with all the resignation of someone who expects to be rejected, but I’m
thinking about how I’ve continued to long for him and how I failed to push my feelings down. This is exactly what I’ve been
wanting for nearly three weeks, and now that it’s presented itself on a silver platter right in front of me, I know I would be a
fool not to take advantage of the opportunity.
I bring a hand up to cup his cheek, and his breath hitches again, but for a different reason this time. “I’d like that,” I whisper,
and then slowly, carefully, bring him in for a kiss. His lips are warm and slightly chapped against mine, and he kisses with a
passionate ferocity, like a flame devouring everything in its path. I let myself be swept up in it and then lick along the seam of
his lips until he opens and I can plunge my tongue into his mouth. It’s a battle for dominance, but every time I think I’m about to
win, Jacob does something to throw me off, and the third time he pinches my nipple between his fingers I realize I’m starting to
get hard in public.
“Mmm, Jacob, we need-” I cut myself off with a gasp when he drags his nails, sharp and sweet, along the base of my scalp.
Heat sings along my veins. “We need to go somewhere private if we want to do anything else.
His lips are swollen, and spit-slick when he pulls back, and the haze of lust in his eyes paints an absolutely debauched
picture as he agrees and tugs me by the hand back toward Atsa’s house. “Everyone is out helping with the protest right now.
We’ll be alone for another few hours at least,” he answers my unspoken question as we head in through the front door. He leads
me to Atsa’s bedroom. I go to protest, but he just grins. “The amount of times Atsa brought people back to our apartment and
never made it past the couch? This is payback. However far we go, we can always strip the comforter off later.”
I find myself sprawled out on my back across the bed, and then Jacob’s hands are everywhere, gliding over my skin as he
removes my shirt and tosses it aside. He just sits there a moment, straddling my lap and staring down at me like I’m something
beautiful and precious. Restless fireworks build beneath my skin, and I bring up my hands to dip into the creases lining his
crotch. There’s a tell-tale wet spot forming on the front of his jeans that has me staring with desire. He hums to himself and then
palms my pecs. Each rub of my nipples sends a shockwave of arousal sparking through me, and I swear they’re getting more
and more sensitive the more Jacob plays with them. “Such cute nipples, Seth,” he whispers and squeezes my pecs hard enough
that I can’t help but moan slightly. “You’re so strong and brave. When you saved me from the guard the other day, I was
terrified, of course, but a part of me wanted you to ravish me right then and there in front of everyone.” The fantasy of it makes
me shudder hard, and I bite my lip.
“I tried so hard to make myself focus on what needed to be done, to ignore what I wanted when it was right in front of me,
but that was stupid and only hurt us both,” he confesses. “You’ve been so patient with me, so kind, and now it’s my turn to
return the favor. I want to make you cum. Is that okay, Seth?” I nod, too overwhelmed to find the words I need. He licks my
nipple and blows air over it. My dick presses tight against my jeans, and I jolt at the sensation, unable to recover before he
sucks my other nipple into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it until he bites down. I yelp and throw back one hand to grip
at the bed cover above me. The pain goes straight to my dick, and I feel it swell to full hardness in my pants.
Something flickers in his eyes as he looks between me and my outstretched arm, hesitant but also understanding, and then he
shifts up, reaching over my head to pin my wrist down with one firm hand while he maintains ruthless eye contact. “Don’t
move your hand, soldier boy,” he instructs in a tone that’s pitched low and stern, unlike anything I’ve heard from him before. It
surges through me with so much force that it’s impossible to restrain the reaction he triggers in me. Heat floods my veins, and
my eyes roll back in my head as my back arches, skin desperate and aching for any kind of relief from this blazing euphoria I
can’t escape. I let out a choked whimper, and then my vocal chords seem to fail me because the only sounds they produce after
that are high, breathy gasps and moans.
His hand, when he lets go of my wrist, leaves the burning imprint of his touch behind, and I flex my fingers, reveling in the
way that phantom heat shifts and moves with the tendons of my wrist. I press my other hand down on his crotch, feeling the
warm dampness that’s soaked through the denim, but then Jacob is undoing my belt and I watch with shaky breaths as he uses
his teeth to pull my zipper down. He noses at the outline of my dick and exhales hot and humid against me before pressing a
kiss to the head, still trapped by fabric. I grunt and moan and lift my hips, only for him to press down with both hands. I let him.
He kisses me deeply, leaves me panting hard, and then kisses down the column of my throat. “Gorgeous,” he whispers
reverently into my skin.
“S-so are you,” I reply around a gasp, and I feel his mouth curve into a smile. “You’re so brave and determined, and you
never stop fighting for what’s right even when it’s difficult, and-” Words escape me as Jacob sucks a hickey onto my
collarbone and then with his other hand, reaches down and pulls my dick free.
“Time for your reward, soldier boy. Are you ready?” His hand feels amazing around my dick, and I fear that I’ll cum any
moment just from his touch alone. I shake my head, then nod, too overwhelmed to choose, and he laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ll
make you feel good,” he purrs against my lips. He spits on my dick, and it shouldn’t be possible for it to make me more
aroused, but it does, and between that and my precum, he starts to pump me. He’s kneeling over me, that lithe body so beautiful
and warm against my one hand, and I bury my fingers in his hair while I have the chance. It’s soft and smooth like silk, and I
swear never again to make fun of his hair care routine if this is the result. He pumps harder, faster, and I want to last longer, but
the way he watches me, the way he kisses me, all of it sends me closer and closer to the edge until I can’t hold on any longer.
My release crashes over me and takes with it any sense of being as I’m swept away in an ocean of orgasmic bliss.
I come back down to myself with slow, tired blinks. Jacob is still straddling me, his expression one of awe and pride, and I
sink into the warm buzz it creates when I realize I’m the reason he looks like that. “So good, so amazing, Seth. You’re beautiful.
You make me crazy. God, the things you do to me,” he’s murmuring as he rocks in place over me. At some point, he’d undone
his own jeans, and his dick was out as well, rutting against my thigh, and his pleasure was addicting. With my one arm, I heft
him up by the waist and use my leg to trap us together so that our dicks are rubbing against one another. He gasps, taken by
surprise, but then moans long and loud. “So hot, so strong. Look at you, gorgeous, stunning-'' It's frantic and messy, and our
mouths slide against one another like our cocks as we chase our orgasms. The overstimulation is on the edge of too much too
soon, but it’s also indescribably delicious, and we moan and kiss in tandem as we both reach that peak together.
As we lay there together in the afterglow, Jacob cradles my cheek and presses a sweet kiss to my lips. “You can move your
hand again, Seth,” he whispers kindly. I laugh and blush, but then use both hands to pull him in close and kiss him again and
again, and he gives a pleased hum in response, holding me just as tight. I decide that no matter what happens, I’m not going to
lose this.
 11

Jacob

W hen the inspection team arrives, the lead is a pleasant, if talkative white man well into his sixties with a southeastern
drawl by the name of Gene Emmets. From the moment he steps out of his car, he’s admiring the effort put into the protest
and our setup. “Been working in this field for forty-odd years, and Calmer Co.'s always been a thorn in my side,” he declares
as Seth, Atsa, Chooli, and I escort them to the main gates. “When I heard about all of this, I turned to my wife, and I says, ‘It’s a
good thing they’re doing, Barb, standing up to those tyrants like that.’” His hands are gnarled with arthritis, but the way he
carries himself speaks to his years of experience. “You’ll be darned sure I’ll look high and low for so much as a loose screw
or improper chemical storage to get them to crack down on that bastard Montgomery. That man’s been a pain in my rear even
longer than the company itself, I tell you what.”
I muffle a laugh behind my hand and glance over at Seth. He looks as stoic as ever, but when he senses my gaze, he returns
the glance, and I can see mirth twinkling in his eyes. Things have been different between us since the day he showed me the
mural, better. Seth explained that it would be unprofessional to date a client, so while we haven’t put a label on our
relationship yet, it’s easy now to gravitate in Seth’s space, to touch him and banter with him while we go about our day. The
awkwardness has vanished, and Seth doesn’t try to hide the fondness in his expression when he watches me during quiet
moments - few and far between though they are - alone or with the Chavis family.
Everyone has noticed, and Aunt Chooli sent me a particularly smug look when we returned in the late afternoon four days
ago after throwing Atsa’s bedding in the wash. His disgust when he realized what we’d done was as dramatic as I expected,
but the confident snarkiness Seth displayed in return was a pleasant surprise and soon they were volleying good-natured insults
back and forth. It’s clear he feels comfortable around Atsa and the rest of his family, and that makes me happy because they’re
just as much my family, too. All Ajei did was clap Seth on the back in congratulations and shoot us both finger guns before
darting off to help out her parents with something.
“Gene,” Montgomery says flatly in greeting.
Gene frowns, looking all the world like someone just spat on his polished leather shoes. “Frank.”
The tension that crackles between them is near-palpable, and I push down the hope that’s filling my chest. When Atsa said an
inspection team would be coming, I’d been afraid they would be lazy about the job even with all the media attention, or that
they would side with the plant rather than a bunch of protestors. But that’s clearly not the case, and already I’m feeling better
about this outcome. Gene starts talking again, but the other man isn’t looking at him anymore. Montgomery’s stare is dark and
poisonous, and I stare right back, unperturbed until Seth shifts behind me and draws the plant manager’s focus. I watch him
pale at the sight of the mountain of a man who I’m certain is glaring him down. To say I’m satisfied is an understatement.
Montgomery and a few security guards escort Gene and the team inside the plant, and Gene has whipped out a little notepad
and is already scribbling away, much to Montgomery’s displeasure. I huff a laugh at the sight, then turn to Aunt Chooli. “I really
hope this works.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes comfortingly. “Me too.” As we turn to regroup with the rest of the family and
other leading members of the tribe, we’re approached by two people who clearly aren’t from around here. One has a
microphone in hand, the other has a camera hefted up on his shoulder, and I feel a little bit of my soul leave my body. Seth must
notice because he snorts and isn’t quick enough to hide the noise. I glare at him, but he looks back at me innocently.
“Hello, my name is Ashton Hapner. I’m a reporter from CNN. Please just call me Ashton.” The one with the microphone
greets cheerfully. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few things about your feelings on the inspection?”
They’ve got thick boots on and a maroon tank top paired with dark blue overalls. Their skin is a deep olive tone, and they’ve
got a national parks bandana around their head to hold back the fringes of their black hair, which seems to be styled into the
beginnings of a mullet. Earrings line their ears, some colorful and others just simple metal. A they/them pronoun pin is stuck to
the strap of their overalls, and while it’s not the look I’m used to seeing on a reporter, it’s refreshing, and I only look to the
others for confirmation before agreeing. We move off to the side of the crowd to escape the worst of the noise, and Ashton and
their cameraman who has a sticker name tag that says Ryan, walk us through the list of questions before going live. It’s a good
interview; Ashton asks me things, of course, but also makes sure to direct several questions toward Aunt Chooli and her niece
and nephew for a more varied set of perspectives. Eventually, though, they turn to Seth, who has been a silent but supportive
presence at my side for the entirety of the interview.
“So, you seem to be a newer addition to the group. Can I ask your name and how you got involved in all of this?”
Seth’s mouth twitches in what I know is a restrained grimace, but he steps forward all the same.
“My name is Seth. Jacob was jumped during the first days of the protest. The company I work for, Alden Security, is run by
ex-military personnel and employs a lot of veterans who serve as bodyguards, many of them pro bono. I got a call about this
job the morning after he was assaulted and came down to act as extra security. It’s a good thing I did because Montgomery’s
guards went after Jacob with the intent to severely harm or kill during the protest the next day. Whether that was something
Montgomery encouraged is unclear, but seeing as the guard responsible for attacking Jacob with a taser is still employed here, I
think the answer is clear.”
Ashton nodded. “That video was intense - I’m just glad no one was seriously injured.”
Ever since the day I was nearly tased, things between the protestors and the guards have been at a stalemate. Only the
particularly zealous protestors that tried to climb the gates early on got maced or struck - otherwise it seems they’ve been given
orders not to engage so long as we stay on the other side of the gate and don’t entirely block off the regular truck shipments.
“What’s your opinion on the protest and Calmer Co., Seth?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but Ashton is patient, and I take his hand where it’s just out of view of the camera. A
building tension in his shoulders eases away, and he gives my hand a grateful squeeze.
“I think that I didn’t spend several years of my life fighting in a war to protect my country just to come back home and find
out that there are basic human rights like access to clean water being violated and no one’s doing anything to stop it.”
Ashton’s eyes go wide, as do Ryan’s, and Ajei barks out a sharp, vicious laugh while Atsa gives a long, low whistle of
admiration. With an impressed gleam in their eye, the reporter ends the interview there.

***

We spend hours waiting in the hot sun. Cameras litter the crowd and people switch out every so often between the frontlines
and the shelter of the tents so that no one passes out from heat exhaustion. Ajei is asleep with her head in my lap. Atsa sits to
my right, and he has a book on Navajo pottery borrowed from his mom that he’s showing off to Seth. Seth is doing his best to
look interested, but every so often, he has to blink himself back to awareness, and I hold back a laugh. His hair is greasy like he
hasn’t showered properly in a few days, which is true. None of us have, really, besides the odd baby wipe or wet sponge to
keep the stench manageable. Despite the flood of donations our cause has received, we already knew how important it was to
conserve our water before this, and the habit’s stuck. Haseya, Thomas, and Chooli, are discussing things quietly with Dezba,
who sits behind us. Grandma Doba and Grandpa Kele went back to the house a couple of hours ago with Uncle Eric to check
on Diana, who volunteered to babysit her and Chooli’s kids.
It’s not until early evening that the inspectors emerge from the plant, Montgomery tailing behind with members of his
administrative staff flanking him in their fancy, spotless suits, and the hope cocooned around my heart shrivels to dust when I
see the weary expression on Gene’s face. The crowd backs up when the gates open to allow him through, and reporters swarm
Montgomery and his people while we rush over to Gene.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and all I can think about is Uncle Bidzii in his hospital bed, cheering us on while slowly wasting away.
There’s a deep grief in the man’s face that I know is mirrored in all of ours. “There was nothing I could write them up for.
Every nook and cranny is cleaner than a bleached whistle.” Montgomery is speaking with a news crew just beyond the gates
with an easy charm and a smug, smarmy smile on his face that makes me want to punch him. Why? Why is wanting clean water
such a crime?
Dezba and a few of my tribe escort Gene and his team back to their cars so that they don’t get mobbed. I stand there, hearing
my family’s voices but not really processing.
“With no evidence of illegal dumping found during the EPA inspection, it’s difficult to say what the so-called Guardian of the
Environment protest will do now...” I hear one reporter say to the camera near us. It’s a similar narrative across the board, and
everything is just a blur of white noise as Seth herds me through flashing lights and shouting voices to the relative safety of the
provisions tent. Vaguely, I’m aware of Seth sitting me down on a cot, and I hear he and Atsa exchange words for a few minutes
before my best friend heads back out into the fray. I know I should be out there, I know I should be helping my family with
damage control and motivational speeches to keep the protestors together and united. But all I can think about is that it’s over,
that we failed. I failed.
It doesn’t feel real. But at the same time, it feels all too real, like the weight of the sky is crashing down on my shoulders, and
I’m no Atlas, so soon it’ll crush me entirely. There’s a ringing in my ears and a buzzing in my brain. Time spins and swirls,
sound comes in bits and pieces, and I want to breathe, but my throat feels too tight and dry like I’ve been stranded for days in
the Sahara. What happens now? Have we...have we really lost? I don’t want to leave this spiral of panic because it will mean
facing reality again and answering those questions that I don’t want answers to. I’m lost and spinning out of control, and I can’t
help but wonder how much worse things are going to get now.
My stomach drops out from under me. Bile burns up my throat, and I want to vomit. How long until we can’t afford to
purchase clean water? The donation fund likely started petering off the moment all those news channels went live. The entire
country had its eyes on us, but we lost, and so just like every other time an indigenous person has screamed and begged for
help, we’ll be ignored and eventually forgotten. All of this, all our struggles- it’ll fade into nothing, just another blip on the
timeline, just another paragraph or footnote in the elementary history textbooks. Remember the Alamo they said, and yet
honestly, how many people even know it exists?
Seth’s hands are steady points of warmth where they clasp mine, I realize. He’s rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand,
and when I manage to lift my head against that invisible crushing weight, his mouth is a straight, flat line, and his eyes are
billowing black ocean waves of sorrow and concern.
“I don’t know why we tried,” I whisper. My voice comes all choked up and raspy because even now, I feel like I’m
drowning beneath the reality of what this means for my people.
“Jacob-”
I shake my head and suck in a shuddering gasp. “America hasn’t been our home- We haven’t belonged here since the moment
we gave the Europeans corn instead of gold!” Something breaks in my chest, a scarred-over wound that never healed right,
born of generation after generation of misery and oppression and feeling like outsiders when we were here first.
A sob claws its way up my throat, and it echoes with centuries of my people’s anger and grief. There’s a storm in me, crafted
by every starving child, every crying mother, every overworked father. I think of the way running water and electricity are often
luxuries in a reservation, of the long, back-breaking hours I watched my uncle work just to make sure I could go to school and
succeed where so many of his generation never did. The parties we have when someone in the tribe finishes high school or gets
into college because the American school system drains your bank account dry and expects you to thank it, and it’s so rare for
any of us ever to get that far because we’ve been kicked down more times than we can count. I think of how we live on
reservations, how when Manifest Destiny rolled around, our ancestors didn’t fit into the perfect picture of a white-picket fence
American Dream. So, we were pushed aside and boxed up on the worst land they could find, like a broken toy, and told to be
grateful. They talk about the Trail of Tears in history textbooks, too, but no one wants to remember that because it’s not heroic
like the Alamo, because it puts America’s flaws right on front display and asks why hasn’t anything changed.
Why? Because back when we were dying from the Europeans' new diseases, and even now when we’re dying from our
water that's supposed to be safe, we’re the only ones looking out for us.
And it makes me So. Fucking. Angry.
“We just want to live-!” I scream as I whip my head forward and squeeze Seth’s hands hard enough that it must hurt. Tears
stream down my face, and I bear my teeth in something between a snarl and a sob. “All we fucking wanted was to live our
lives- but instead we just keep suffocating on their goddamn greed!” I want to hit something until it shatters, want to flay the
skin on my knuckles until all that’s left is blood. Maybe if I bleed enough, some of this poison in my veins will finally leave,
and I’ll feel more than just this burning, consuming anger. Maybe that’s what the white settlers thought would happen, too. I
want to go back in time and scream no, no, you’re just making it worse.
Seth hugs me close, runs a hand through my hair and lets me cry and scream into his shoulder and twist my fingers into his
shirt until my nails leave tears in the fabric. He’s my port in the storm, and I desperately want to tell him that I’m not angry at
him, that I care about him, and he’s nothing like Montgomery just because they have the same skin color. The grief chokes me
every time I try, but the way he just squeezes me tighter - like he’s trying to piece all my broken pieces back together - makes
me think he understands.
 12

Seth

I tI’ve
takes a long time for Jacob to calm down. I sit there and hold him in my arms and pretend that my heart isn’t cracking apart.
interacted with Native American people before, especially after moving to Colorado, but it was always surface-level
conversations or greetings. I knew I was ignorant, and coming here to protect Jacob and be a part of this protest has opened my
eyes to a lot and made me aware of the preconceptions that I carried without even realizing it. But what Jacob’s just unleashed
is a completely unfiltered, raw anger, and it hits me deep in my core. His words resonate with grief and sorrow and the
unfairness of it all, and it takes me back to the senseless, unending misery of the war. The eyes of the Afghani kids who looked
up at me when I walked through their village, armed and desensitized to it all, wondering if they would ever see their family
members again who had gone off to fight or if they would even survive to see tomorrow.
I left the military because I was tired of fighting and because I didn’t know who I was outside of the constant adrenaline of
battle. But now I’m here and know I’m fighting for something I’ve chosen. The Chavises are my family now - a light in the
darkness that my own parents could never be and maybe never wanted to be - and Jacob’s already stolen a piece of my heart. In
the time that I’ve been here, I’ve met people who are strong and inspiring and continue laughing and living in the face of
endless adversity. I’ve met strangers who brought hundreds of dollars worth of blankets and heaters because they just wanted
to help but weren’t sure how. For the first time ever, I’ve found somewhere where it feels like I truly belong, and I know that
I’m going to do everything in my power to fight for this place and these people because they are special and brave, and they
deserve to feel like they belong in this country just like everyone else.
When Jacob finally stops crying, and his breaths slow down to a calmer pace, I squeeze him once and then pull back just
enough to meet his eyes. They’re red-rimmed and puffy, and the bleak desolation spilling across his face stabs my heart. It’s
obvious he’s given up, that he doesn’t know how this could possibly be salvaged, and I cradle his face in my hands.
“We’re gonna be okay,” I promise him, keeping my voice firm and leaving no room for argument. “This isn’t the end. Even if
it’s just the two of us with an air horn, we won’t let it end here. This isn’t the end unless we let it be.”
There’s a flicker of humor in his eyes that softens the hopelessness just slightly, and my heart swoops at the sight. “Bold of
you to assume Atsa or Ajei wouldn’t want to join with even more obnoxious things than an air horn.”
I chuckle and concede, “You’re right. There’s no way they would skip that. We could finally give Dezba some matches if we
really wanted to fire things up.”
A laugh, faint and shaky, but there. “I think that would kind of go against the whole ‘peaceful protest’ shtick we’ve got going
though.”
I hum playfully and adjust my grip so I can hold him around the waist and brush damp, messy strands of hair out of his face.
“I suppose that’s fair. We’ll workshop it later once we’re back home.”
For some reason, that makes Jacob smile, and it’s the warmest I’ve seen him since Gene’s team went into the plant that
morning. “Yeah, home.”
Once he’s cleaned himself up, we head outside and watch the protestors pack up and trickle back to their cars bit by bit. It
hurts to see the defeat and resignation painted clearly on their faces, but Jacob must sense my thoughts because he squeezes my
hand, and I can tell he’s recalling my earlier promise. We won’t let it end here. Chooli comes to check on us and graciously
says nothing about the obvious evidence that Jacob was crying or that we still haven’t let go of each other’s hands. It’s a
comfort we can’t afford to lose as the hundreds of people lessen and lessen, and Montgomery watches it all from the front of
his plant with smug satisfaction. Other people from the Navajo Nation are the last to leave after helping us pack up our section
of tents, and soon, it’s just us, the Chavises, and a few others from Jacob’s tribe.
“I’m gonna stay in town for a few days.” I look up. Ashton Hapner stands there, Ryan a faithful shadow by their side,
although the camera is packed up in a large, heavy case that explains the man’s toned biceps. “Something tells me this isn’t the
end, and I’m gonna be here to cover it for you guys so that the whole world sees. CNN can deal with me being gone a little
longer.” Beside me, that seems to rekindle something in Jacob because he straightens his shoulders and sets his jaw.
Over by the cars, Atsa shouts to ask if we’re ready to leave. Jacob lets go of my hand to shake Ashton’s. “Thanks, Ashton.
We’ll be sure not to disappoint.”

***

Unlike the last big family get-together, this dinner is a somber affair. The food is simpler this time, but still just as good, and I
even try a few bites of the blue corn mush again just to get a reaction out of Ajei, who’s been muted and quiet ever since we
left the plant. She scrunches up her face in disgust before breaking into a small smile when I tell her how delicious it is, and
that seems to break the tension hanging over the table like a light had gone out, but now it’s back, and everyone can see again.
“What is your plan now, Seth?” Grandma Doba speaks up from the far end of the table. All eyes turn to me, but it’s not as
intimidating as the last time it happened. Now, I just feel included. Seen. It’s a nice thought.
“I’ll probably get a call soon from my bosses, but...I’m gonna tell them I’m staying here a little while longer.” The blooming
surprise on their faces has me backtracking immediately. “If-if that’s okay with all of you, I mean.”
Thomas lets out a booming laugh, “Of course it is! Things wouldn’t be the same around here without you, Seth!”
“We really appreciate everything you’ve done,” Eric adds, and both his wife and Dezba agree wholeheartedly.
“You’re a regular Chavis now,” Chooli grins, shooting a look at Jacob, who rolls his eyes but nods as well.
Under the table, he takes my hand and squeezes it once. “Yeah, you’re not escaping us that easily now, soldier boy.”
“Look, Ajei, they’re flirting,” Atsa stage whispers to his sister, who cackles outright at that. I feel my cheeks begin to warm
and fight it back, but a glance at Jacob proves that he’s lost that battle immediately because his entire face is aflame.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jacob grumbles good-naturedly. “We like each other. You were right, big whoop.”
The whole table devolves into a loud debate over who called it first, with Chooli and Atsa at the forefront, and I just sit back
and watch it all unfold happily.
After dinner and clean-up, Jacob and I end up on the floor of Atsa’s room, backs reclined against the bed. I think of what
happened between us the last time we were in here and shake my head against the sudden flush of heat that strikes me. Now is
not the time. Jacob has his hair down and loose, brushing it out in his usual nighttime routine since, apparently, we’ll be staying
the night here. Atsa had taken one look at us in here, gagged dramatically, and fled to go play with his little cousins and Ajei.
I wait until he has a section brushed out and then run my hands through the smooth black strands. He huffs a laugh, and his
eyes sparkle when he glances up at me. “You really like my hair, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I murmur without hesitation because I know he won’t judge me for it. “It’s pretty.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he scoffs, but I spot the telltale blush on his cheeks when he tries to turn away. He starts to brush his
hair again but then pauses, and I lower my hand as he seems to debate something in his head.
Finally, he whispers, “What if your bosses say no?” His hands are shaking, and I carefully grab them. “What if you have to
leave tonight? You won’t be able to finish your mural even though you worked so hard on it-!” I pull him close as he blinks
away the sudden sheen in his eyes. “You’re just as much a part of this as the rest of us, and I-I don’t think I can do this without
you, Seth.” He bites his lip at the confession like it was more than he meant to say, but he doesn’t take any of it back. I lift up
his hands and press kisses along every knuckle. His skin is dry and close to cracking in places from the weeks of sleeping
outside and stress. I make a mental note to grab him some lotion the next time we’re at the store.
“John and David aren’t like that, I’m sure they’ll understand. It’ll be fine.”
Jacob sighs heavily. “Okay...I-I believe you.” He curls into my side, and I lay my cheek on top of his head. It’s been a
difficult day, and it’s nice just to sit there together, taking comfort in each other’s presence without feeling the need to do or say
anything else. Eventually, though, pins and needles start to rake their way up my leg, and I know it’s time to go do what I’ve
been putting off. We separate, but the warmth and the softness still lingers between us. I have to resist the urge to tug him back
in and just keep him there with me forever.
“You good if I go outside for a bit? Clear my head and maybe call the bosses to make sure they know what’s going on.”
Jacob nods and makes a shooing gesture. “Yeah, I’ll be fine, promise. You’re helping me blow up the air mattress though
later, just so you know.”
I chuckle and nod. “Deal.”
Once outside, I wander over to Uncle Bidzii’s garden and stand there for what must be almost thirty minutes, just listening to
the sounds of the reservation and watching the sun sink lower in the sky. It’s reminiscent of that night in the garden with Jacob a
few weeks ago, except this time, the man in question is still inside and likely talking to Atsa. At some point, I hear a car door
slam and the rumble of tires on gravel and wonder where they’re going this late in the evening. It’s a beautiful place, although
after listening to Jacob’s rant, I can see the stark evidence of neglect and disrepair that comes with low government funds. I
wonder if it’ll ever change, if I can help in some way, or if my help would even be welcome. Maybe with more time, I could
figure something out, but unfortunately, I know I’m running out of time. Another ten minutes pass before my phone buzzes in my
pocket, and I take it out to see the caller I.D. I steel myself, remind myself everything will be fine, and then I answer it.
“Hey, Seth,” John greets. “Saw the news. How are things over there?”
“Rough,” I respond truthfully. “But I think we’ll pull through.” The line is silent for a moment, and it occurs to me that I said
‘we’ rather than ‘they.’ I don’t take it back, though. It feels right.
“We’ve got another job lined up for you...but something tells me you won’t be taking it.” John’s always been able to read me
like a book, and it’s clear that this time is no different.
“I can’t leave yet,” I tell him. “Things got personal - which I know isn’t professional, and I’m sorry - but it’s just- I finally
feel like I’m doing something important and-”
There’s a shuffle on the other line, and then it’s David’s voice coming through the speaker. “We get it, Seth. Don’t apologize.
We’re glad you found something to fight for - not gonna lie, when I saw Sanchez’s photo, I kinda hoped this would be the
outcome, so really, you should thank me-!”
A loud sigh as John says in the background, “Your phone privileges are revoked,” followed by more shuffling, bickering, and
the sound of a door shutting.
“I swear to God, sometimes I’m convinced I married Cupid rather than a vet,” John mutters wearily into the receiver, but his
tone is fond. “But he’s right, Seth. You take all the time you need. You’ll still have a job if you want it, but right now, you just
see this through and let us know if you need a hand. We’ll support you no matter what ‘cause you’re part of our family too, and
I hope you know that.”
There’s a hot lump in my throat as I swallow back overwhelmed tears. It was something I’d known for a while, but it was a
kind of peripheral knowledge - there but never really clicked in my brain. Now though, now I know how lucky I am, and I hear
John sigh kindly. “You dumbass. Employee or not, you’ll always have us. Besides, Marcus would never let us hear the end of it
if we let you go over something like this. He loves you, and so do we.”
I sniffle and nod, fighting back more tears as I clear my throat and try to find my voice again. “I love you guys too. Thanks for
everything. I’ll keep you updated, yeah?”
“Sounds good,” John chuckles. There’s a faint, muffled voice and a thump, and the man huffs exasperatedly. “Hold on,
David’s trying to pick the lock on the bathroom door. I’ll let him in so he can say bye.”
David’s voice, when he’s back on the phone, is a little out of breath but still chipper. “Tell everyone there hi for me and to
kick that guy Montgomery’s ass! We’ll be cheering you on - I’ll even get Marcus over here so we can have a watch party when
you’re on the news again!”
I laugh. “Sounds good, David. Thanks, and...I love you.”
“We love you too,” they both say.
“Good luck,” comes John’s steady tone, and then the call ends.
I stand there for several minutes, staring up at the stars and just trying to process the maelstrom of emotions in my center.
The moment of peace is interrupted by Atsa sprinting over from the house, frantic worry etched onto his face, and I feel my
insides freeze with dread. “What’s wrong?” I ask as soon as he skids to a halt in front of me.
“Jacob got a call from the hospital - the nurse said his uncle was in bad shape and that he should come right away.” His
voice is pitched up; he’s teetering on the edge of a panic attack. “You were busy, and Jacob said he was fine to go alone, that
he’d call once he got there to let us know what was going on but- but he hasn’t, and Ajei just got a DM on her Instagram from
some bot account that says ‘I win’ and I think-” Atsa cuts himself off, gulping down a sob.
The entire time I’ve known him, he’s been an easy-going, steady guy, always ready to crack a joke or offer support, but now,
he’s breaking apart, and I’m already moving because if Atsa is freaking out, then things are bad. I drag him in close by the
shoulders and hold him tight on our way back to his house as he wheezes, “I think Jacob’s in trouble.”
 13

Jacob

M yfillshands grip the steering wheel so tight the knuckles go white. The phone call from Nurse Ellen echoes in my head and
the rigid silence of the car. “You need to come as soon as possible, Mr. Sanchez...it’s your uncle.” I didn’t waste time
to ask what was wrong or even grab Seth. I hope he won’t be too angry with me that I went on my own, but this is bigger than
any threat Montgomery could ever issue. My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly as I speed toward town. My time living here has
taught me all the usual spots where the cops like to put patrols or speed traps, so I get to the hospital in just over twenty
minutes. I park haphazardly, grab my keys and phone, and then lock the car before rushing in through the front sliding doors.
The evening shift nurses are startled when I come barreling in, but I bypass all of them, along with the sign-in area, and make a
beeline for my uncle’s room.
I throw open the door, expecting to see the room full of nurses assisting my uncle or his usual doctor there with a clipboard
and a grave expression on his face. Instead, I see Ellen, her expression teary-eyed with remorse, my uncle asleep, and
Montgomery watching me from his stance by the foot of the bed. For once, I’m glad the cancer and the drugs have made
exhaustion a persistent companion of my Uncle Bidzii; I don’t want him to be awake to see any of this.
Two of the thugs who’d attacked me a few weeks ago stand on either side of Montgomery, big and intimidating and filling the
space of my uncle’s room in a way I hate. Despite it all, I have to spare a moment to observe my uncle. He looks the same as
before, if a little more fragile beneath the room’s obvious tension, and I want to throw Montgomery and his slimy attitude out
the window as far away from my uncle as possible. The plant manager shifts in obvious irritation, but I don’t give him a second
glance until I’m sure that my shidá’i’ is alright. I would much rather Ellen’s call be a part of the ruse to lure me here than be
rooted in any kind of truth that means my uncle is really dying.
Montgomery snaps his fingers at me, pulling my attention back to him, and my face contorts into a disgusted sneer at the
action. “Why the fuck are you here, Montgomery?”
The man grins, but it’s nasty and dark, and the room’s fluorescent lights cast a sinister gleam over his face. “You really
thought I was done with you after the stunt you pulled?”
I close the little distance that remains between us and cross my arms over my front. I’m keenly aware of my uncle’s silent
form just a few feet away, oxygen mask firmly in place as his chest shudders through weak, raspy breath after weak, raspy
breath. “And what stunt was that?”
“Putting your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Oh-ho, sorry, didn’t realize the multiple deaths of my tribespeople would be so inconvenient for you,” I sneer. Beside my
uncle’s I.V. stand and heart monitor, Ellen shifts anxiously. She has a clipboard clutched tight against her chest, and her
shoulders shake almost imperceptibly beneath her pale green scrubs and white coat. It’s obvious she’s been threatened or
blackmailed into this, and when our eyes meet for just a flash of a second, I hope she can tell that I don’t blame her for tricking
me.
He sighs as if I’m particularly slow and splays his palms out wide. “What happened to your people is truly a tragedy, Mr.
Sanchez, but unfortunately, neither my plant nor Calmer Co. has a role in those deaths, and as such, no legal responsibility to
offer monetary compensation or hear out your grievances. I wish I could provide you with some measure of proof that you are
looking for conspiracies where none exist, but it’s obvious that your grief over the state of your uncle has rendered you
incapable of making clear-headed decisions.”
I jab a finger into his chest. He raises his eyebrows and smirks at me, lifting a hand to hold off the thug on the right when he
moves to separate us. Anger swirls hot and bright in my gut; I can feel it course through my veins, the same kind that echoes
with all the injustices my ancestors suffered. “It’s not some coincidence that people started getting sick from the water just a
few months after your shitty-ass plant moved in. Do you really think we’re stupid?” I keep my voice low, hissing out every
word as the rest of me seethes. All I want to do is scream and shout, to unleash this hurricane that’s howling and roiling inside
me on the verge of shattering until I make him hear me. Hear us. Because until he and his precious, poisonous plant is gone, my
people will never be able to heal. “The river runs right past your plant - on Calmer Co. property - and it’s on your land for a
few miles before it crosses the reservation line. Whatever shit you’re dumping at night when no one’s watching, it’s killing
people. But you’re too much of a greedy, power-hungry bastard to care about that.”
Montgomery’s eyes darken while his face remains cool and collected. I watch his smirk tame itself into a smile of false
innocence. The power balance in the room noticeably shifts, and I resist the urge to step back. Although we are the same height,
he suddenly seems to loom over me. I ignore the voice that whispers you sprung the trap, idiot. “We have never dumped
chemicals on our land, of that I can assure you, Mr. Sanchez. But I can see how important this issue is to you, so why don’t we
go discuss this elsewhere in private? After all, we wouldn’t want to disturb your uncle, now would we?”
He glances at his thugs, a familiar malicious gleam shared between them, and a thrill of terror lances down at my spine. His
message is clear: You or your uncle. My hands go clammy, and the back of my neck prickles like an icy hand has just touched
me. I clench my jaw and nod. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Ellen looks terrified when the four of us file out of the room, and as the door shuts on her and my uncle, I pray with the
desperation of a man approaching the gallows that she’ll do the right thing.
Once we’re outside, my phone is confiscated, and it occurs to me that I was supposed to call Atsa once I got here. The
realization is a distant one, coupled with the rapidly encroaching sense of dread as it crawls down my throat and sits heavy in
my gut. I wonder how long it will take for him to sense something’s off. I wonder what everyone will do when they realize I’m
gone. I wonder what Seth will do.
I’m led to a sleek black car parked on the edge of the lot, away from any security cameras, that’s undoubtedly worth more
than all of Uncle Bidzii’s hospital bills. A hired driver stands beside it; expression schooled into blank indifference as I’m
shoved forward by thug number one. I eye the backseat, already analyzing multiple different escape plans, when I hear
Montgomery say something, and then a hand grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me back hard. My hair is down and loose; I’d
forgotten a hair tie in my rush and had been preparing for bed anyway, so I hadn’t seen the point of tying it up after I’d brushed
it with Seth. I cry out in pain and reach back to claw at his face, but Montgomery catches my eye from where he stands by the
passenger side door.
The driver is already getting in behind the steering wheel, and Montgomery watches me struggle gleefully. There’s a clear
warning in the way he tilts his head, in the sharp edges of his smile. It’s like getting whiplash as I think of my uncle up in his
room, unprotected and in too much pain to defend himself. Rage and fear create a bitter taste on my tongue as they mix - tasting
like iron and bile. I grit my teeth and lower my arms. The triumph on Montgomery’s face makes him look almost manic, and
then I can’t see him anymore as my hands are wrenched behind my back to be bound by thick rope. My hair is yanked on even
harder, unbalancing me, and a cloth reeking of chemicals is clamped over my mouth. I know what is, know what’s about to
happen, but eventually, I have to breathe, and the chemicals burn their way up my nose and down my throat. I hear the trunk
click open while my vision swims. My legs won’t cooperate, but I’m dragged forward anyway. I want to scream as I’m forced
into the trunk, but the sound won’t come out. I can’t get my voice to work, and the last thing I see as my body gives out and my
mind drifts is Montgomery’s face staring down at me right before the trunk slams shut.
It’s dark and cramped. I want to cry, and I want my hand to make a fist so I can punch out the tail light like they do in the
movies. But what I really want, I realize, even as the thought starts to disappear, is to be back in the bedroom with Seth, to have
the heat of his body pressed against mine as he runs his fingers through my hair. It’s dark and cramped as my surroundings
rumble to life, but I don’t have a chance to panic because then the entire world slips away from my grasp, and I’m gone.
 14

Seth

A tsa and Ajei follow me without a word as we race down the hall toward Bidzii’s room. Jacob’s truck had been in the lot
when we arrived, but that doesn’t mean anything now. Ahead of us, I see the door open, and my heart lifts only to plummet
down to my feet when, instead of Jacob, it’s Ellen, who looks pale and shaken. Her eyes are red, and they go wide when she
looks up and spots me. I watch the flash of terror, the momentary consideration to run, and I tense, ready to pursue, but then it
fades, and her shoulders slump in resignation. She beckons us into an empty room across the hall from Bidzii’s, and the moment
the door is shut, I’m in her space and pinning her down with a dangerous glare.
“Where’s Jacob.” It isn’t a question.
The visible cracks in her demeanor splinter into jagged ravines.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks as she hunches her shoulders and folds in on herself. She looks
tiny and fragile in the sterile emptiness of the hospital room, but I don’t let myself feel any sympathy. Impatience skitters up my
spine and dances along the edge of the anger that’s just barely contained inside me.
“Where. Is. He?” My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms, and I watch her jump.
“Gone!” She exclaims through her tears. I feel my whole world tilt and crumble into the abyss. Behind me, Ajei gasps.
“Montgomery took him. My-my brother works at the plant, and he said he would hurt him if I didn’t get Jacob here alone, if-if I
told anyone what he was doing, and, and I know that doesn’t make it right-” Ellen chokes on air in her panic, coughs harshly,
sniffles, and keeps going. “I swear I never wanted to hurt Jacob, please, you have to believe me, I didn’t-”
She buries her face in her hands and crumples to the floor in front of me. “Oh god, this is all my fault!” Ajei ducks around me
and lowers herself down to the ground beside the distraught nurse. Then she pulls her into a gentle hug, which only makes the
woman cry harder.
“Where did they take him?” My entire body buzzes with pent-up energy, and my nerves spark and crackle with the need to
run like live wires that have been stripped. To find Jacob before it’s too late.
Ellen shakes her head, her voice muffled by her hands but intelligible nonetheless. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
Ajei holds her tighter. “This isn’t your fault. Who knows what he would have done to you or your brother if you hadn’t done
what Montgomery wanted?
Atsa is silent and distant when he leaves the room to go check on Jacob’s uncle. The blood roars in my ears, and all I hear is
Ajei telling me to go before I sprint down the halls and out of the hospital. It’s late, the sun has set, and the town center is dark.
There’s no one around, no one who would have seen what happened to Jacob. I’m halfway through the thought of calling the
police when I remember that they won’t help, so instead, I try to slow down and think about this the way we would back in the
military. I need information. I need to know where Montgomery took him. I need-
A glint of metal on the ground draws my attention to the far end of the parking lot. It’s around the corner of the building, right
in the blind spot of the cameras, and the whole world seems to fade away as I lean down and pick up Jacob’s car keys. My
stomach drops, and I swallow down bile. There’s a beat where I can only stare, and then everything slams into me at once—
guilt, rage, terror.
I should’ve been here with him.
If I hadn’t gone outside, how would things have changed?
Would he still be here, teasing me and laughing with his family?
There’s a disease festering within me. It sprouts in my lungs and crawls up my trachea to latch its claws into my esophagus.
It suffocates me, drags me underwater so that I can’t escape, and I briefly wonder if I even deserve to escape. Jacob put his
trust in me on that first day, however reluctantly, and I have worked tirelessly to prove that I’m deserving of that trust and
ensure he has nothing to fear, and yet when it mattered most, I failed. I clutch the car keys so tight that the metal warms in my
Another random document with
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 MADAME MAC WILLIAMS ET LE TONNERRE
Oui, Monsieur, continua M. Mac Williams,—car il parlait depuis un
moment—la crainte du tonnerre est une des plus désespérantes infirmités
dont une créature humaine puisse être affligée. Elle est en général limitée
aux femmes. Mais parfois on la trouve chez un petit chien, ou chez un
homme. C’est une infirmité spécialement désespérante, par la raison qu’elle
bouleverse les gens plus qu’aucune autre peur ne peut le faire, et qu’il ne
faut pas songer à raisonner avec, non plus qu’à en faire honte à celui qui
l’éprouve. Une femme qui serait capable de regarder en face le diable,—ou
une souris,—perd contenance et tombe en morceaux devant un éclair. Son
effroi est pitoyable à voir.
Donc, comme j’étais en train de vous dire, je m’éveillai, avec, à mes
oreilles, un gémissement étouffé venant je ne savais d’où: «Mortimer!
Mortimer!» Dès que je pus rassembler mes esprits, j’avançai la main dans
l’obscurité, et je dis:
—«Évangeline, est-ce vous qui appelez? Qu’y a-t-il? Où êtes-vous?»
—«Enfermée dans le cabinet des chaussures. Vous devriez être honteux
de rester là à dormir au milieu d’un tel orage.»
—«Bon! comment pourrait-on être honteux, si on dort? C’est peu
logique. Un homme ne peut pas être honteux quand il dort, Évangeline.»
—«Vous ne voulez pas comprendre, Mortimer, vous savez bien que vous
ne voulez pas.»
Je perçus un sanglot étouffé.
Cela coupa net le discours mordant que j’allais prononcer. Et je dis par
contre:
—«Je suis désolé, ma chérie, je suis tout à fait désolé. Je n’avais pas la
moindre intention... Revenez donc, et...»
—«Mortimer!»
—«Ciel! Qu’y a-t-il, mon amour?»
—«Prétendez-vous dire que vous êtes encore dans ce lit?»
—«Mais évidemment.»
—«Sortez du lit immédiatement. J’aurais cru que vous auriez quelque
souci de votre vie, pour moi et les enfants, si ce n’est pour vous.»
 —«Mais, mon amour!...»
—«Ne me parlez pas, Mortimer. Vous savez très bien qu’il n’y a pas
d’endroit plus dangereux qu’un lit, au milieu d’un orage. C’est dans tous les
livres. Mais vous resteriez là, à risquer volontairement votre vie, pour Dieu
sait quoi, à moins que ce soit pour le plaisir de discuter et...»
—«Mais que diable, Évangeline, je ne suis pas dans le lit, maintenant.
Je...»
(Cette phrase fut interrompue par un éclair soudain, suivi d’un petit cri
d’épouvante de Mme Mac Williams, et d’un terrible coup de tonnerre.)
—«Là! vous voyez le résultat! O Mortimer, comment pouvez-vous être
assez impie pour jurer à un tel moment!»
—«Je n’ai pas juré. Et ce n’est pas ce qui a causé le coup de tonnerre,
dans tous les cas. Il serait arrivé pareil, si je n’avais pas dit un mot. Vous
savez très bien, Évangeline, du moins vous devriez savoir, que, l’atmosphère
se trouvant chargée d’électricité...»
—«Oui, raisonnez, raisonnez, raisonnez! Je ne comprends pas que vous
ayez ce courage, quand vous savez qu’il n’y a pas sur la maison un seul
paratonnerre, et que votre pauvre femme et vos enfants sont absolument à la
merci de la Providence... Qu’est-ce que vous faites?... Vous allumez une
allumette!... Mais vous êtes complètement fou!»
—«Par Dieu! Madame, où est le mal? La chambre est aussi noire que le
cœur d’un mécréant, et...»
—«Soufflez cette allumette! Soufflez-la tout de suite. Êtes-vous décidé à
nous sacrifier tous? Vous savez qu’il n’y a rien qui attire la foudre comme
une lumière. (Fzt!—crash!—boum—bolooum—!! boum—! boum!—) Oh!
entendez!... Vous voyez ce que vous faites!»
—«Pas du tout. Une allumette peut attirer la foudre. C’est après tout
possible. Mais elle ne cause pas la foudre. Je parierais bien n’importe quoi.
Et encore, pour l’attirer, elle ne l’attire pas pour deux sous. Si cet éclair était
dirigé vers mon allumette, c’était pauvre comme adresse. Ce serait touché
une fois sur un million... Vrai, à la foire, avec une adresse pareille...»
—«Par pudeur, Mortimer! C’est au moment où nous nous trouvons juste
en présence de la mort, à ce moment si solennel, que vous osez parler
ainsi!... Si vous ne songez pas à ce qu’il y aura après... Mortimer!»
—«Eh bien!»
 —«Avez-vous dit vos prières, ce soir?»
—«Je... j’y ai pensé, mais je me suis mis à calculer combien font douze
fois treize, et...»
(Fzt!...—Boum—berroum—boum! bumble—umble—bang!—pan!)
—«Oh! nous sommes perdus! plus d’espoir! Comment avez-vous pu
commettre une telle négligence, en un tel moment!»
—«Mais quand je me suis couché, ce n’était pas du tout un tel moment. Il
n’y avait pas un nuage au ciel. Comment aurais-je pu penser qu’il allait y
avoir tout ce tapage et ce tohu-bohu pour un petit oubli comme celui-là? Et
je ne trouve pas que ce soit juste à vous de faire tant d’affaires, car, après
tout, c’est un accident très rare. Je n’avais pas oublié mes prières depuis le
jour que j’ai amené ce tremblement de terre, vous vous rappelez, il y a quatre
ans.»
—«Mortimer! Comme vous parlez! Avez-vous oublié la fièvre jaune?»
—«Ma chère, vous êtes sans cesse à me jeter à la tête la fièvre jaune, et je
trouve cela tout à fait déraisonnable. On ne peut même pas envoyer
directement un télégramme d’ici à Memphis, comment voulez-vous qu’un
petit oubli religieux de ma part aille si loin! J’admets pour le tremblement de
terre, parce que j’étais dans le voisinage. Mais que je sois pendu si je dois
accepter la responsabilité de chaque damné...»
(Boum—berooum—booum—pan!)
—«O mon cher, mon cher! Je suis sûre qu’il est tombé quelque part.
Mortimer! Nous ne verrons pas le jour suivant. Puissiez-vous vous rappeler,
pour votre profit, quand nous serons morts, que c’est votre langage impie...
Mortimer!»
—«Eh bien! quoi?»
—«J’entends votre voix qui vient de... Mortimer, seriez-vous par hasard
debout devant cette cheminée ouverte?»
—«C’est exactement le crime que je suis en train de commettre.»
—«Sortez de là tout de suite! Vous paraissez décidé à nous faire tous
périr. Ignorez-vous qu’il n’y a pas de meilleur conducteur de la foudre
qu’une cheminée ouverte?... Où êtes-vous maintenant?»
—«Je suis ici, près de la fenêtre.»
—«Je vous en supplie, Mortimer. Êtes-vous devenu fou? Éloignez-vous
vite. L’enfant à la mamelle connaît le danger de se tenir près d’une fenêtre,
pendant un orage. C’est mon dernier jour, mon pauvre ami. Mortimer!»
—«Oui.»
—«Qu’est-ce qui remue comme cela?»
—«C’est moi.»
—«Que faites-vous donc?»
—«Je cherche à enfiler mon pantalon.»
—«Vite, vite, jetez-le. Vous allez tranquillement vous habiller avec un
temps pareil! Et cependant, vous le savez fort bien, toutes les autorités
s’accordent pour dire que les étoffes de laine attirent la foudre. O mon cher
ami, n’est-ce pas assez que votre existence soit en péril par des causes
naturelles, que vous fassiez tout ce qu’il est humainement possible de faire
pour augmenter le danger!... Oh! Ne chantez pas!... A quoi donc pensez-
vous?»
—«Bon! encore! Où est le mal?»
—«Mortimer, je vous ai dit, non pas une fois, mais cent, que le chant
cause des vibrations dans l’atmosphère, et que ces vibrations détournent le
courant électrique, et que... Pourquoi donc ouvrez-vous cette porte?»
—«Bonté divine! Madame! Quel inconvénient y a-t-il là?»
—«Quel inconvénient! La mort, voilà tout. Il suffit d’avoir étudié la
question une seconde pour savoir que, faire un courant d’air, c’est adresser
une invitation à la foudre. Cette porte est encore aux trois quarts ouverte.
Fermez-la exactement. Et hâtez-vous, ou nous allons tous mourir. Oh! quelle
affreuse chose d’être enfermée avec un fou dans un cas semblable!... Que
faites-vous, Mortimer?»
—«Rien du tout. J’ouvre le robinet de l’eau. On étouffe. Il fait chaud et
tout est fermé. Je vais me passer un peu d’eau sur la figure et les mains.»
—«Vous avez perdu tout à fait la tête. Sur cinquante fois que frappe la
foudre, elle frappe l’eau quarante-neuf fois. Fermez le robinet. Oh! mon ami,
rien ne peut plus nous sauver! Il me semble que... Mortimer! qu’est-ce qu’il
y a?»
—«C’est ce damné... C’est un tableau que j’ai fait tomber.»
—«Alors vous êtes près du mur! Je n’ai jamais vu pareille imprudence.
Vous ne savez pas que rien n’est meilleur conducteur de la foudre qu’un
mur! Écartez-vous! Et vous alliez encore jurer. Oh! comment pouvez-vous
être si désespérément criminel, quand votre famille est dans un tel péril!
Mortimer! Avez-vous commandé un édredon, comme je vous l’avais dit?»
—«Je l’ai tout à fait oublié.»
—«Oublié! Il peut vous en coûter la vie. Si vous aviez un édredon,
maintenant, vous pourriez l’étendre au milieu de la chambre et vous coucher,
vous seriez tout à fait en sûreté. Venez vite ici, venez vite, avant que vous
ayez l’occasion de commettre quelque nouvelle folie imprudente.»
J’essayai d’entrer dans le réduit, mais nous ne pouvions pas y tenir tous
deux, la porte refermée, sans étouffer. Je fis ce que je pus pour respirer, mais
je fus bientôt forcé de sortir. Ma femme me rappela:
—«Mortimer, il faut faire quelque chose pour votre salut. Donnez-moi ce
livre allemand qui est sur le bord de la cheminée, et une bougie. Ne
l’allumez pas. Donnez-moi l’allumette. Je vais l’allumer ici dedans. Il y a
quelques instructions dans ce livre.»
J’eus le livre, au prix d’un vase et de quelques menus objets fragiles. La
dame s’enferma avec la bougie. Ce fut un moment de calme. Puis elle
appela:
—«Mortimer, qu’est cela?»
—«Rien que le chat.»
—«Le chat! Nous sommes perdus. Prenez-le, et l’enfermez dans le
lavabo. Vite, vite, mon amour! Les chats sont pleins d’électricité. Je suis sûre
que mes cheveux seront blancs quand cette nuit effroyable sera passée.»
J’entendis de nouveau des sanglots étouffés. Sans cela, je n’aurais pas
remué pied ou main pour une pareille entreprise dans l’obscurité.
Cependant je vins à bout de ma tâche, par-dessus chaises et toutes sortes
d’obstacles divers, tous durs, la plupart à rebords aigus; enfin je saisis le chat
acculé sous la commode, après avoir fait pour plus de quatre cents dollars de
frais en mobilier brisé, et aux dépens aussi de mes tibias. Alors me
parvinrent du cabinet ces mots sanglotants:
—«Le livre dit que le plus sûr est de se tenir debout sur une chaise au
milieu de la chambre, Mortimer. Les pieds de la chaise doivent être isolés
par des corps non conducteurs. C’est-à-dire que vous devez mettre les pieds
de la chaise dans des verres.»
(Fzt!—booum!—boum!—pan!)
—«Oh! écoutez! Dépêchez-vous, Mortimer, avant d’être foudroyé.»
 Je m’occupai de trouver les verres. J’eus les quatre derniers, après avoir
cassé tout le reste. J’isolai les pieds de la chaise, et m’enquis de nouvelles
instructions.
—«Mortimer, voici le texte allemand: «Pendant l’orage, il faut garder
attaché de soi... métaux... c’est... bagues, garder montres, clefs... et on ne
doit jamais... ne pas... se tenir dans les endroits... où sont placés des métaux
nombreux ou des corps... reliés ensemble, comme... des poêles articulés, des
foyers, des grilles...»—Qu’est-ce que cela signifie, Mortimer? Veut-il dire
que l’on doit garder les métaux sur soi, ou se garder d’en avoir?»
—«Ma foi, je ne sais trop. C’est un peu confus. Toutes les phrases
allemandes sont plus ou moins obscures. Pourtant je crois qu’il faut lire
«attaché à». La phrase est plutôt au datif, avec un petit génitif ou un
accusatif piqué, çà et là, pour l’ornement. D’après moi cela signifie qu’on
doit garder sur soi des métaux.»
—«Ce doit être cela. Cela saute aux yeux. C’est le même principe que
pour les paratonnerres, vous comprenez. Mettez votre casque de pompier,
Mortimer! C’est presque pur métal.»
Il n’y a rien de plus lourd, de plus embarrassant, de moins confortable
qu’un casque de pompier sur la tête, par une nuit étouffante, dans une
chambre fermée. Il faisait si chaud que mes vêtements de nuit déjà me
paraissaient trop pesants.
—«Mortimer, je songe qu’il faut protéger le milieu de votre corps.
Auriez-vous l’obligeance de mettre à la ceinture votre sabre de garde
national?»
J’obéis.
—«Maintenant, Mortimer, il faut s’occuper de garantir vos pieds. S’il
vous plaît, chaussez vos éperons.
Je chaussai les éperons, en silence, et fis mon possible pour rester calme.
—«Mortimer, voici la suite: «... il est très dangereux... il ne faut pas... ne
pas sonner les cloches... pendant l’orage... le courant d’air... la hauteur du
clocher... de la cloche pouvant attirer la foudre.»—Mortimer! Cela veut-il
dire qu’il est dangereux de ne pas sonner les cloches des églises pendant
l’orage?»
—«Il me semble que c’est bien le sens, si le participe passé est au
nominatif, comme il me paraît. Cela veut dire, je pense, que la hauteur du
clocher et l’absence de courant d’air font très dangereux de ne pas sonner les
cloches pendant un orage. Ne voyez-vous pas, d’ailleurs, que l’expression...»
—«Peu importe, Mortimer. Ne perdez pas en paroles un temps précieux.
Allez chercher la grosse cloche du dîner. Elle est dans le hall, sûrement. Vite,
Mortimer, mon ami, nous sommes presque sauvés. O mon cher, nous allons
enfin être en sûreté!»
Notre petit cottage est situé au sommet d’une chaîne de collines assez
élevées, dominant une vallée. Il y a plusieurs fermes dans le voisinage. La
plus proche est à quelque trois ou quatre cents mètres.
Il y avait une pièce de sept ou huit minutes que, monté sur une chaise, je
faisais sonner cette satanée cloche, quand les volets de notre fenêtre furent
soudain tirés du dehors, la clarté d’une lanterne sourde traversa la fenêtre
ouverte, suivie d’une question enrouée:
—«Que diable se passe-t-il?»
L’embrasure était pleine de têtes de gens. Les têtes étaient pleines d’yeux
qui regardaient avec stupeur mon accoutrement belliqueux.
Je laissai tomber la cloche, sautai tout honteux en bas de la chaise et dis:
—«Il n’y a rien du tout, mes amis; seulement un peu de trouble causé par
l’orage. J’essayais d’écarter la foudre.»
—«Un orage?... La foudre?... Quoi donc, monsieur Mac Williams, avez-
vous perdu l’esprit? Il fait une superbe nuit d’étoiles. Pas l’ombre d’un
nuage dans le ciel.»
Je regardai au dehors, et fus si surpris que je fus un moment sans pouvoir
parler.
—«Je n’y comprends rien, dis-je enfin. Nous avons vu distinctement la
lueur des éclairs à travers les volets et les rideaux, et entendu le tonnerre.»
Tous les assistants, successivement, tombèrent de rire sur le sol. Deux en
moururent. Un des survivants remarqua:
—«Il est malheureux que vous n’ayez pas songé à ouvrir vos jalousies et
à regarder là-bas, au sommet de cette colline. Ce que vous avez entendu,
c’est le canon. Ce que vous avez vu, ce sont les feux de joie. Il faut vous dire
que le télégraphe a porté quelques nouvelles ce minuit. Garfield est élu.
Voilà toute l’histoire.»
Enfin, monsieur Twain, comme je le disais au début, ajouta M. Mac
Williams, les moyens de se préserver d’un orage sont si efficaces et si
nombreux que l’on ne pourra jamais me faire comprendre comment il peut y
avoir au monde des gens qui s’arrangent pour être foudroyés.
Là-dessus, il ramassa son sac et son parapluie et prit congé, car le train
était à sa station.
 NOTES SUR PARIS
Le Parisien voyage très peu, ne connaît pas d’autre langue que la sienne,
ne lit pas d’autre littérature que la sienne[A]. Aussi a-t-il l’esprit très étroit et
très suffisant. Cependant, ne soyons pas trop sévères. Il y a des Français qui
connaissent une autre langue que la leur, ce sont les garçons d’hôtel. Entre
autres ils savent l’anglais. C’est à dire qu’ils le savent à la façon
européenne... Ils le parlent, mais ne le comprennent pas. Ils se font
comprendre facilement, mais il est presque impossible de prononcer une
phrase anglaise de telle sorte qu’ils puissent en saisir le sens. Ils croient le
saisir. Ils le prétendent. Mais non. Voici une conversation que j’ai eue avec
une de ces créatures. Je l’ai notée dans le temps, pour en avoir le texte exact:
Moi.—«Ces oranges sont fort belles; d’où viennent-elles?»
Lui.—«D’autres. Parfaitement. Je vais en chercher.»
Moi.—«Non, je n’en demande pas d’autres. Je voudrais seulement savoir
d’où elles viennent, où elles ont poussé.»
Lui.—«Oui» (la mine imperturbable et le ton assuré).
Moi.—«Pouvez-vous me dire de quel pays elles viennent?»
Lui.—«Oui» (l’air aimable, la voix énergique).
Moi (découragé).—«Elles sont excellentes.»
Lui.—«Bonne nuit, Monsieur.» (Il se retire, en saluant, tout à fait satisfait
de lui-même.)
Ce jeune homme aurait pu apprendre très convenablement l’anglais, en
prenant la peine, mais il était Français, et ne voulait pas. Combien différents
sont les gens de chez nous! Ils ne négligent aucun moyen. Il y a quelques
soi-disant protestants français à Paris. Ils ont construit une jolie petite église
sur l’une des grandes avenues qui partent de l’Arc de Triomphe, se
proposant d’y aller écouter la bonne parole, prêchée en bonne et due forme,
dans leur bonne langue française, et d’être heureux. Mais leur petite ruse n’a
pas réussi. Le dimanche, les Anglais arrivent toujours là, les premiers, et
prennent toute la place. Quand le ministre se lève pour prêcher, il voit sa
maison pleine de dévots étrangers tous sérieux et attentifs, avec un petit livre
dans les mains. C’est une bible reliée en marocain, semble-t-il. Mais il ne
fait que sembler. En réalité c’est un admirable et très complet petit
dictionnaire français-anglais, qui, de forme, de reliure et de dimension, est
juste comme une bible. Et ces Anglais sont là pour apprendre le français[B].
Ce temple a été surnommé: l’église des cours gratuits de français.
D’ailleurs, les assistants doivent acquérir plutôt la connaissance des mots
qu’une instruction générale. Car, m’a-t-on dit, un sermon français est comme
un discours en français. Il ne cite jamais un événement historique, mais
seulement la date. Si vous n’êtes pas fort sur les dates, vous n’y comprenez
rien. Un discours, en France, est quelque chose dans ce genre:
—«Camarades citoyens, frères, nobles membres de la seule sublime et
parfaite nation, n’oublions pas que le 10 août nous a délivrés de la honteuse
présence des espions étrangers, que le 5 septembre s’est justifié lui-même à
la face du ciel et de l’humanité, que le 18 Brumaire contenait les germes de
sa propre punition, que le 14 Juillet a été la voix puissante de la liberté
proclamant la résurrection, le jour nouveau, et invitant les peuples opprimés
de la terre à contempler la face divine de la France, et à vivre. Et n’oublions
pas nos griefs éternels contre l’homme du 2 Décembre, et déclarons sur un
ton de tonnerre, le ton habituel en France, que, sans lui, il n’y aurait pas eu
dans l’histoire de 17 mars, de 12 octobre, de 19 janvier, de 22 avril, de 16
novembre, de 30 septembre, de 2 juillet, de 14 février, de 29 juin, de 15 août,
de 31 mai; que, sans lui, la France, ce pays pur, noble et sans pair, aurait un
calendrier serein et vide jusqu’à ce jour!»
J’ai entendu un sermon français qui finissait par ces paroles éloquentes et
bizarres:
—«Mes frères, nous avons de tristes motifs de nous rappeler l’homme du
13 janvier. Les suites du crime du 13 janvier ont été en justes proportions
avec l’énormité du forfait. Sans lui, n’eût pas été de 30 novembre, triste
spectacle! Le forfait du 16 juin n’eût pas été commis, et l’homme du 16 juin
n’eût pas, lui-même, existé. C’est à lui seul que nous devons le 3 septembre
et le fatal 12 octobre. Serons-nous donc reconnaissants au 13 janvier, qui
soumit au joug de la mort, vous et moi, et tout ce qui respire? Oui, mes
frères, car c’est à lui que nous devons aussi le jour, qui ne fût jamais venu
sans lui, le 25 décembre béni!»
Il serait peut-être bon de donner quelques explications, bien que, pour
beaucoup de mes lecteurs, cela soit peu nécessaire. L’homme du 13 janvier
est Adam. Le crime, à cette date, fut celui de la pomme mangée. Le désolant
spectacle du 30 novembre est l’expulsion de l’Éden; le forfait du 16 juin, le
meurtre d’Abel; l’événement du 3 septembre, le départ en exil de Caïn pour
la terre de Nod; le 12 octobre, les derniers sommets de montagnes
disparurent sous les eaux du déluge. Quand vous irez à l’église, en France,
emportez un calendrier,—annoté.
 L’ARTICLE DE M. BLOQUE
Notre honorable ami, M. John William Bloque, de Virginia City, entra
dans le bureau du journal où je suis sous-directeur, à une heure avancée, hier
soir. Son attitude exprimait une souffrance profonde et poignante. En
poussant un grand soupir, il posa poliment sur mon bureau l’article suivant et
se retira d’un pas discret. Un moment il s’arrêta sur la porte, parut lutter pour
se rendre maître de son émotion et pouvoir parler, puis remuant la tête vers
son manuscrit, il dit d’une voix entrecoupée: «Mes chers amis, quelle triste
chose!» et fondit en larmes. Nous fûmes si émus de sa détresse que nous ne
songeâmes à le rappeler et à essayer de le consoler qu’après qu’il eut
disparu. Il était trop tard. Le journal était déjà à l’impression, mais,
comprenant l’importance que notre ami devait attacher à la publication de
son article, et dans l’espoir que le voir imprimé apporterait quelque
mélancolique consolation à son cœur désolé, nous suspendîmes le tirage, et
l’insérâmes dans nos colonnes:
«Désastreux accident: Hier soir, vers six heures, comme M. William
Schuyler, un vieux et respectable citoyen de South Park, quittait sa maison
pour descendre en ville, suivant sa coutume constante depuis des années, à
l’unique exception d’un court intervalle au printemps de 1850, pendant
lequel il dut garder le lit à la suite de contusions reçues en essayant d’arrêter
un cheval emporté, et se plaçant imprudemment juste dans son sillage, les
mains tendues et poussant des cris, ce que faisant il risquait d’accroître
l’effroi de l’animal au lieu de modérer sa vitesse, bien que l’événement ait
été assez désastreux pour lui, et rendu plus triste et plus désolant par la
présence de sa belle-mère, qui était là et vit l’accident, quoiqu’il soit
cependant vraisemblable, sinon indispensable, qu’elle eût dû se trouver en
reconnaissance dans une autre direction, au moment d’un accident, n’étant
pas, en général, très alerte et très à propos, mais tout le contraire, comme fut,
dit-on, feu sa mère, morte avec l’espoir confiant d’une glorieuse
résurrection, il y a trois ans passés, à l’âge de quatre-vingt-six, femme
vraiment chrétienne et sans artifice, comme sans propriétés, par suite de
l’incendie de 1849, qui détruisit tout ce qu’elle possédait au monde. Mais
c’est la vie. Faisons tous notre profit de cet exemple solennel, nous efforçant
d’agir de telle sorte que nous soyons prêts à bien mourir, quand le jour sera
venu. Mettons la main sur notre cœur, et engageons-nous, avec une ardeur
sincère, à nous abstenir désormais de tout breuvage enivrant.»
(Le Calédonien. 1re édition.)

Le rédacteur en chef vient d’entrer dans mon bureau, en s’arrachant les

cheveux, brisant les meubles et me maltraitant comme un pickpocket. Il dit
que chaque fois qu’il me confie le soin du journal pendant seulement une
demi-heure, je m’en laisse imposer par le premier enfant ou le premier idiot
qui se présente. Et il dit que ce désastreux article de M. Bloque n’est qu’un
tissu de désastreuses stupidités, et ne rime à rien, et ne signifie rien, et n’a
aucune valeur d’information, et qu’il n’était absolument pas nécessaire de
suspendre le tirage pour le publier.
Voilà ce que c’est qu’avoir trop bon cœur. Si j’avais été désobligeant et
désagréable, comme certaines gens, j’aurais dit à M. Bloque que je ne
pouvais recevoir son article à une heure si tardive; mais non, ses
pleurnichements de détresse touchèrent mon cœur, et je saisis l’occasion de
soulager sa peine. Je ne lus pas même son article pour m’assurer qu’il
pouvait passer, mais j’écrivis rapidement quelques lignes en tête, et je
l’envoyai à l’impression. A quoi m’a servi ma bienveillance? A rien, qu’à
attirer sur moi un orage de malédictions violentes et dithyrambiques.
Je vais lire cet article moi-même, et voir s’il y avait quelque raison de
faire tant de tapage. Si oui, l’auteur entendra parler de moi.
Je l’ai lu et je crois pouvoir dire qu’il paraît un peu embrouillé à première
vue. D’ailleurs je vais le relire.
Je l’ai relu. Et réellement il me semble un peu plus obscur qu’avant.
Je l’ai lu cinq fois. Mais si j’y comprends un mot, je veux être richement
récompensé. Il ne supporte pas l’analyse. Il y a des passages
incompréhensibles. Il ne dit pas ce qu’est devenu William Schuyler. Il en dit
juste assez sur lui pour intéresser le lecteur à ce personnage, puis le laisse de
côté. Qui est-ce, en somme, William Schuyler? Dans quelle partie de South
Park habitait-il? S’il descendit en ville, à six heures, s’y arrêta-t-il? Si oui,
que lui arriva-t-il? Est-ce lui, l’individu qui fut victime du désastreux
accident? Considérant le luxe minutieux de détails qu’on observe dans cet
article, il me semble qu’il devrait donner plus de renseignements qu’il ne
fait. Au contraire, il est obscur. Non pas seulement obscur, tout à fait
incompréhensible. La fracture de la jambe de M. Schuyler, quinze ans
auparavant, est-ce là le désastreux accident qui plongea M. Bloque dans une
affliction indescriptible, et le fit venir ici, à la nuit noire, pour suspendre
notre tirage afin de communiquer au monde cet événement?—Ou bien, le
«désastreux accident» est-ce la destruction des propriétés de la belle-mère de
M. Schuyler, dans les temps anciens?—Ou encore la mort de cette dame, qui
eut lieu il y a trois ans (bien qu’il ne paraisse pas qu’elle soit morte d’un
accident)? En un mot, en quoi consiste le «désastreux accident»? Pourquoi
cet âne bâté de Schuyler se plaça-t-il dans le sillage d’un cheval emporté, en
criant et gesticulant, s’il prétendait l’arrêter? Et comment diable fit-il pour
être renversé par un cheval qui était déjà devant lui? Et quel est l’exemple
dont nous devons faire notre profit? Et comment cet extraordinaire chapitre
d’absurdités peut-il renfermer un enseignement? Et, par-dessus tout, qu’est-
ce que le «breuvage enivrant» vient faire là? On n’a pas dit que Schuyler
buvait, ou sa femme, ou sa belle-mère, ou le cheval. Pourquoi, alors, cette
allusion au «breuvage enivrant»? Il me semble que si M. Bloque avait laissé
lui-même tranquille le «breuvage enivrant», il ne se serait jamais tourmenté
de la sorte pour cet exaspérant et fantastique accident. J’ai relu et relu cet
article absurde en faisant toutes les suppositions qu’il peut permettre, jusqu’à
en avoir la tête qui tourne, mais je ne puis lui trouver ni tête ni queue. Il
semble certain qu’il y a eu un accident de quelque nature, mais il est
impossible de déterminer de quelle nature ou à qui il arriva. Je ne veux de
mal à personne, mais je suis décidé à exiger que la prochaine fois qu’il
arrivera quelque chose à l’un des amis de M. Bloque il accompagne son récit
de notes explicatives qui me permettent de savoir exactement quelle sorte
d’accident ce fut, et à qui il arriva. J’aimerais mieux voir mourir tous ses
amis, que de me trouver à nouveau devenu aux trois quarts fou, en essayant
de déchiffrer le sens de quelque autre semblable production.
UN ROMAN DU MOYEN ÂGE
 CHAPITRE PREMIER

LE SECRET RÉVÉLÉ

Il était nuit. Le calme régnait dans le grand vieux château féodal de

Klugenstein. L’an 1222 touchait à sa fin. Là-bas, au haut de la plus haute
tour, une seule clarté luisait. Un conseil secret s’y tenait. Le sévère vieux
lord de Klugenstein était assis dans une chaise d’apparat et plongé dans la
méditation. Bientôt il dit, avec un accent de tendresse: «Ma fille!»
Un jeune homme de noble allure, vêtu, des pieds à la tête, d’une armure
de chevalier, répondit: «Parlez, mon père.»
«Ma fille, le temps est venu de révéler le mystère qui pesa sur toute votre
jeunesse. Ce mystère a sa source dans les faits que je vais aujourd’hui vous
exposer. Mon frère Ulrich est le grand-duc de Brandenbourg. Notre père, à
son lit de mort, décida que, si Ulrich n’avait pas d’héritier mâle, la
succession reviendrait à ma branche, à condition que j’eusse un fils. En
outre, au cas où ni l’un ni l’autre n’aurait de fils, mais aurait des filles
seulement, l’héritage reviendrait à la fille d’Ulrich, si elle pouvait prouver un
nom sans tache, sinon, ma fille serait l’héritière, pourvu qu’elle témoignât
d’une conduite irréprochable. Ainsi, ma vieille femme et moi, nous priâmes
avec ferveur pour obtenir la faveur d’un fils. Mais nos prières furent vaines.
Vous naquîtes. J’étais désolé. Je voyais la richesse m’échapper, le songe
splendide s’évanouir. Et j’avais eu tant d’espoir! Ulrich avait vécu cinq ans
dans les liens du mariage, et sa femme ne lui avait donné aucun héritier de
sexe quelconque.
«Mais, attention, me dis-je, tout n’est pas perdu. Un plan sauveur se
dessinait dans mon esprit. Vous étiez née à minuit. Seuls le médecin, la
nourrice, et six servantes savaient votre sexe. Je les fis pendre
successivement en moins d’une heure de temps. Au matin, tous les habitants
de la baronnie devinrent fous de joie en apprenant par les hérauts qu’un fils
était né à Klugenstein, un héritier au puissant Brandenbourg! Et le secret a
été bien gardé. Votre propre tante maternelle vous a nourrie, et jusqu’à
maintenant nous n’avons eu aucune crainte...
«Quand vous aviez déjà dix ans, une fille naquit à Ulrich. Nous fûmes
peinés, mais nous espérâmes dans le secours de la rougeole, des médecins ou
autres ennemis naturels de l’enfance. Hélas! nous fûmes désappointés. Elle
grandit et prospéra, le ciel la maudisse! Peu importe. Nous sommes
tranquilles. Car, ha! ha! n’avons-nous pas un fils? Notre fils n’est-il pas le
futur duc? Notre bien-aimé Conrad, n’est-ce pas exact? Car femme de vingt-
huit ans que vous êtes, mon enfant, jamais un autre nom ne vous fut donné.
«Maintenant, voici le temps où la vieillesse s’est appesantie sur mon frère
et il s’affaiblit. Le fardeau de l’État pèse lourdement sur lui, aussi veut-il que
vous alliez le rejoindre et prendre les fonctions de duc, en attendant d’en
avoir le nom. Vos serviteurs sont prêts. Vous partez ce soir.
«Écoutez-moi bien. Rappelez-vous chacun de mes mots. Il existe une loi
aussi vieille que la Germanie, que si une femme s’assied un seul instant sur
le grand trône ducal avant d’avoir été dûment couronnée en présence du
peuple, elle mourra. Ainsi, retenez mes paroles. Affectez l’humilité.
Prononcez vos jugements du siège du premier ministre, qui est placé au pied
du trône. Agissez ainsi jusqu’au jour où vous serez couronnée et sauve. Il est
peu probable que votre sexe soit jamais découvert, cependant il est sage de
garder toutes les précautions possibles dans cette traîtreuse vie terrestre.
—«O mon père! c’est donc pour cela que ma vie tout entière est un
mensonge! Pourquoi faut-il que je dépouille mon inoffensive cousine de ses
droits? Épargnez-moi, mon père, épargnez votre enfant!»
—«Quoi! méchante! Voilà ma récompense pour la haute fortune que je
vous ai préparée! Par les os de mon père, vos pleurnicheries sentimentales
s’accordent mal avec mon humeur. Partez pour aller trouver le duc
immédiatement et prenez garde de contrarier mes projets.»
Telle fut la conversation. Qu’il suffise de savoir que les prières, les
supplications et les pleurs de l’aimable enfant furent inutiles. Ni cela ni rien
ne pouvait toucher l’obstiné vieux seigneur de Klugenstein. Et ainsi, enfin, le
cœur gros, la jeune fille vit les portes du château se fermer derrière elle, et se
trouva, chevauchant dans la nuit, entourée d’une troupe armée de chevaliers
vassaux, et d’une brave suite de serviteurs.
Après le départ de sa fille, le vieux baron demeura quelques minutes
silencieux, puis se tournant vers sa femme triste, il dit:
«Madame, nos affaires semblent marcher très bien. Il y a trois mois pleins
que j’envoyai l’habile et beau comte Detzin, avec sa mission diabolique, à la
fille de mon frère, Constance. S’il échoue, nous n’aurons pas tout gagné,
mais s’il réussit, nul pouvoir au monde n’empêchera notre fille d’être
duchesse, quand même la mauvaise fortune voudrait qu’elle ne soit jamais
duc.»
—«Mon cœur est plein d’appréhensions. Cependant tout peut encore
réussir.»
—«Fi donc! Madame! laissez croasser les chouettes. Allons nous coucher
et rêver de Brandenbourg et de sa grandeur!»
 CHAPITRE II

FÊTES ET PLEURS

Six jours après les événements relatés dans le précédent chapitre, la

brillante capitale du duché de Brandenbourg resplendissait de pompe
militaire et retentissait des cris joyeux du peuple loyal. Conrad, le jeune
héritier de la couronne, était arrivé. Le cœur du vieux duc débordait de joie,
car la belle prestance de Conrad et ses façons gracieuses l’avaient séduit
aussitôt. Les grandes salles du palais étaient remplies de seigneurs, qui
reçurent Conrad noblement. Et l’avenir s’annonçait sous des couleurs si
attrayantes et si heureuses que les craintes et les soucis du duc
s’évanouissaient, et faisaient place à une confortable satisfaction.
Mais dans une salle reculée du palais se passait une scène bien différente.
A une fenêtre se tenait la fille unique du duc, dame Constance. Ses yeux
étaient rouges et gonflés, et pleins de pleurs. Elle était seule. Elle se remit à
gémir et dit à haute voix:
«Le cruel Detzin est venu,—mon beau duché a disparu—je ne l’aurais
cru jamais,—hélas! ce n’est que trop vrai!—Et je l’aimais, je l’aimais,—j’ai
osé l’aimer, bien que sachant—que mon père le noble duc,—ne me
permettrait pas de l’épouser!—Je l’ai aimé—je le hais.—Qu’est-il arrivé de
moi?—Je suis folle, folle, folle!—Tout est maintenant perdu!—»
 CHAPITRE III

L’INTRIGUE SE NOUE

Quelques mois passèrent.—Tout le peuple chantait les louanges du

gouvernement du jeune Conrad. Chacun célébrait la sagesse de ses
jugements, la clémence de ses arrêts, la modestie avec laquelle il s’acquittait
de sa haute charge. Bientôt le vieux duc abandonna toutes choses entre ses
mains, et, assis à part, écoutait avec une orgueilleuse joie son héritier rendre
les sentences royales du siège du premier ministre. Il semblait qu’un prince
aussi aimé et applaudi de tous que l’était le jeune Conrad ne pouvait être que
très heureux. Mais, chose étrange, il ne l’était pas. Car il voyait avec effroi
que la princesse Constance s’était éprise de lui. L’amour du reste du monde
eût été pour lui une bonne fortune, mais celui-ci était lourd de dangers. Il
voyait en outre le duc joyeux d’avoir découvert de son côté la passion de sa
fille, et rêvant déjà d’un mariage. Chaque jour s’évanouissaient les nuages
de tristesse qui avaient assombri les traits de la jeune fille, chaque jour
l’espérance et l’enthousiasme luisaient plus clairs dans ses yeux. Et peu à
peu d’errants sourires visitaient son visage si troublé jusqu’alors.
Conrad fut épouvanté! Il se reprochait amèrement d’avoir cédé à la
sympathie qui lui avait fait rechercher la société d’une personne de son sexe
quand il était nouveau venu et étranger dans le palais; mélancolique et
soupirant vers une amitié que les femmes seules peuvent désirer ou éprouver.
Il tâcha d’éviter sa cousine. Cela mit les choses au pis, car, naturellement,
plus il l’évitait, plus elle cherchait ses rencontres. Il s’en étonna d’abord,
puis s’en effraya. Ce fut une hantise, une chasse. Elle le surprenait en tous
temps et partout, la nuit et le jour. Elle semblait singulièrement anxieuse. Il y
avait un mystère quelque part.
Cela ne pouvait durer. C’était le sujet des conversations de tous. Le duc
commençait à paraître perplexe. La frayeur et la détresse affreuse faisaient
un spectre du pauvre Conrad. Un jour qu’il sortait d’une antichambre
précédant la galerie des tableaux, Constance fut devant lui, et lui prenant les
mains, s’écria:
«Oh! pourquoi me fuyez-vous? Qu’ai-je fait ou qu’ai-je dit, pour détruire
votre bonne opinion sur moi? Car sûrement j’eus votre amitié. Ne me