Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
“The original proposal ran the pipeline near a suburb about ten miles north,” I answer, “not near a water supply or anything, but the people there didn’t want it. So guess what? They didn’t get it. They didn’t even have to protest. Just said no.”
“Guess their voices are louder than ours,” Mr. Paul mutters.
“Basically, environmental racism.” Berkeley T-shirt sighs and shakes his head.
“No, exactly environmental racism,” I correct. “But we won’t take it.”
“We’re not going anywhere. We know how to last,” Mr. Paul says, a proud set to his head. “We were the last tribe to surrender. We have warrior in our blood.”
“What do you mean?” Berkeley asks.
“Geronimo was the last Indian warrior to formally surrender to the U.S. government,” I tell him. “He was Apache.”
“Wow,” Berkeley says. “I didn’t know that.”
The van comes to a stop, and through the back window, I see the small police station.
I’ll be grounded for the foreseeable future. There goes…well, life, pretty much.
My father knew about the run. I founded the sponsoring organization, REZpect Water, an action group for youth water protectors, but I conveniently left out the part where I’d actually be in the protest with the dogs and tear gas…and such. When they offer us our one phone call, maybe I’ll just pass and live out the rest of my senior year in a holding cell. I could redirect all my college acceptance letters to the police station. That wouldn’t raise any red flags, would it? What self-respecting place of higher learning isn’t recruiting from the penal system?
“Out,” the cop standing at the door barks, her voice rough and impatient, her unibrow dipped into a frown.
The six of us shuffle toward the police station. The officers don’t seem bothered by the fact that I’m a minor and take my mug shot without incident. The police station is a small-town operation with one holding cell we’re all tossed into together. I don’t anticipate these charges sticking. Cade probably just wants to intimidate us.
Good luck with that, you rich prick.
I may not actually live on the rez anymore, but staying with my father in town hasn’t made it any less my home. I’d still be living there if Mama…
I shove that thought down to a dark hole where I keep the really painful stuff. Why deal with it now? Save something for the therapist I’ll start seeing in my thirties when I finally decide it’s all too much to handle on my own.
My mother was murdered? Taken? Stolen?
Gone.
One of those “unseen” women, an unheard voice, whose disappearance wasn’t shouted about on the news or fretted over by the world.
And I’ll never get over it. Not ever.
There are days when I go a few hours without thinking about it—without wondering what happened to the beautiful woman who gave so much of herself to me and everyone around her. Yeah, there are those days, but not many. Mostly there are a thousand things every day that remind me of her, not the least of which is my own reflection.
“Good to have those off,” Berkeley T-shirt mumbles, rubbing his wrists and reminding me of our current less-than-ideal circumstances. I don’t know how long they’ll keep us in this holding cell.
“This thing hurts like crazy,” Mr. Paul says, touching the reddened, punctured skin of his hand.
“You need medical attention.” I walk over to the bars and glance back over my shoulder to Berkeley T-shirt. “So do you.”
Berkeley. According to that T-shirt, he’s probably already in college. Yeah, he’s already a man, not a boy. My dad would strangle me and maim him.
“I don’t think I’ll lose it.” He nods to his injured arm, one corner of his mouth tipping up.
Focus on first aid, not his lips.
“Hey!” I yell through the bars. “We need a first-aid kit in here.”
Unibrow takes her sweet time ambling toward the cell.
“You rang, m’lady?” she asks. Oh, the sarcasm is thick with this one.
“Yeah. We have two people here with dog bites, thanks to the Cujos you turned loose on us.” I point a thumb over my shoulder. “Thought I’d do you a favor and spare you a lawsuit. You’re welcome.”
She eyes Mr. Paul, who cups his hand, and then she glances at Berkeley. She lingers there, taking in the fully spectacular male specimen he is.
Can’t blame ya, girl.
“I’ll get a first-aid kit and some antibiotic,” she finally says before turning on her heel to leave.
“You’re a real Florence Nightingale,” I shout after her and turn back to the crowded cell. Another van has brought in more of the protestors. It makes my heart heavy, seeing my friends and neighbors behind bars like criminals. We don’t steal. We don’t disregard the law and break our word. That is what has been done to us since the first ship docked.
“Stars and stripes, huh?” Berkeley asks from the bench against the wall.