"You want me to bestuck.Like you."
That was the part that hurt most.Not stuck.Rooted.There was a difference, though James was having a harder time articulating it these days, especially to his daughter, who saw the reservation as a prison rather than a home.
He finally moved from the window, dumping the cold coffee in the sink.The kitchen was quiet now, empty except for him.His wife, Ellah, was at work—she taught third grade at the elementary school and wouldn't be home until four.The silence pressed in, making him acutely aware of how small their house felt when it was just him and his thoughts.
Irene wanted to go to college in California.Not Flagstaff, not even Albuquerque—California, as far from here as she could imagine.She'd gotten into UC Santa Barbara, had even secured some scholarship money, and she was leaving in the fall, whether James liked it or not.
He should be proud.Hewasproud.But he was also terrified in a way he couldn't fully explain, even to Ellah.The world out there, beyond the reservation, beyond the familiar boundaries of home—it had a way of swallowing people up, of making them forget where they came from.
James had never left.He'd been born in the village on Second Mesa, had grown up running through these canyons, had married a girl from Third Mesa, and built this house on land his grandfather had shown him.He knew every rock formation within twenty miles, knew which springs ran year-round and which dried up by August, knew the stories attached to every sacred site.
That wasn't being stuck.That was beingconnected.
But try explaining that to a seventeen-year-old who spent her evenings scrolling through Instagram posts from friends who'd already left, who were sending pictures from Phoenix and Tucson and Denver, living lives that looked impossibly exciting compared to the slow, steady rhythm of reservation life.
This morning's fight had been about spring break.Irene wanted to visit the Santa Barbara campus, stay in the dorms, "get a feel for college life."James had said no—too expensive, too far, too much unsupervised time with strangers.Ellah had sided with Irene, gently suggesting that maybe James needed to loosen his grip a little.
"She's going to leave anyway in the fall," Ellah had said."Maybe it's better if she's prepared.If she knows what to expect."
"What she can expect is a world that doesn't understand her," James had said."A world that doesn't have a clue what community means.Let's revisit this next year—there's no rush."
Irene had exploded at that, accusing him of trying to manipulate her, of wanting to keep her trapped forever, of not caring about her dreams.She'd stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the dishes in the cabinet.
That had been three hours ago.
James moved through the house, unable to settle.He straightened the already-straight cushions on the couch, wiped down the kitchen counter that was already clean, and stared at the television without turning it on.The restlessness was a physical thing, a need to move, to do something productive with the anxious energy buzzing under his skin.
His gaze drifted to the window that looked out toward the east, toward the series of rock formations that marked the boundary of their family's traditional use area.Last night, he'd seen lights out there.Vehicle lights, moving slowly along the ridge near one of the old sites.It had been late—maybe one or two in the morning.He'd gotten up to use the bathroom and had seen them through the bedroom window, distant but distinct against the darkness.
His first thought had been poachers.People came onto the reservation sometimes, hunting illegally or looking for artifacts to steal.It had gotten worse in recent years, with sacred items showing up on eBay and in private collections, sold by people who had no right to take them.
His second thought, darker and more troubling, had been about Patricia Lomahongva.Everyone knew by now.A respected elder was murdered and left at an ancient burial site.The details were fuzzy—the police weren't sharing much—but the basic facts were enough to send ripples of fear and anger through the community.
Of course, he hadn't known about Patricia last night when he saw the lights.He'd debated calling the tribal police, but what would he tell them?He'd seen lights, that was all.Anyone could be out there—a ranger doing rounds, someone with legitimate business, even teenagers looking for a place to party.And if he called it in and it turned out to be nothing, he'd feel foolish.
So he'd gone back to bed, lying awake for another hour, listening to Ellah's steady breathing beside him, telling himself he'd check it out in the morning if he still felt uneasy.
But morning had brought the argument with Irene, and in the chaos of harsh words and slammed doors, he'd forgotten about the lights.
Now, standing in his too-quiet house with nothing but his thoughts for company, James remembered.The lights.The slow movement along the ridge.The sense that something was wrong out there.
Not to mention the knowledge of what had happened to Patricia.
He could go check.It would give him something to do, a purpose beyond pacing his empty house and replaying the argument in his head.The site wasn't far—maybe a twenty-minute walk from his back door, less if he took the truck partway and hiked the last bit.
James grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and his keys from the counter.He didn't leave a note for Ellah—she wouldn't be home for hours anyway, and he'd be back long before then.Just a quick check, see if there were tire tracks or any signs of disturbance, to put his mind at ease.
The afternoon sun was warm, but the breeze still carried a bite.James drove his old pickup along the narrow dirt track that led toward the eastern portion of their use area, the vehicle rattling over ruts and rocks.He'd made this drive countless times—bringing his father out here when the old man could still walk, teaching Irene to drive on these empty roads back when she'd thought it was exciting rather than limiting.
He parked where the road became too rough even for his truck and continued on foot.The landscape here was a mixture of red earth and scattered juniper, punctuated by the dramatic rock formations that had stood for thousands of years.This was old land, sacred land, the kind of place where you felt the weight of all the people who had walked here before you.
James followed a familiar path, his eyes scanning for anything unusual.At first, he saw nothing unusual: just the same rocks, the same scrub brush, the same ancient stillness that had always defined this place.
Then he noticed the tracks.Fresh tire marks in a patch of soft earth, definitely recent.A truck or SUV, something with substantial treads.The tracks led toward one of the rock formations, then seemed to stop.
James followed them, his unease growing with each step.Whoever had been here had parked close to one of the old sites—closer than anyone should be, especially at night, especially without permission.
The rock formation ahead was one he knew well.As a boy, his grandfather had brought him here, had shown him the ancient petroglyphs carved into the stone, had explained in careful terms that this was a place of the ancestors, a place that required respect and caution.James had brought Irene here once, years ago, trying to pass down the same teachings.
