Page 22 of It Takes a Thief

“I don’t know,” he mused. “Maybe it’s because I’d make a good biker like Ozzy Osbourne would make a good President. Wait. What am I saying?”

I chuckled. “Well, you wouldn’t necessarily have to be a biker, you know. We own all sorts of businesses that have nothing—or very little—to do with the club. You could, ah, work in our cannabis dispensary.”

Galileo tilted his head thoughtfully. “Oh, that could be fun. I’ve been known to grow a mean feminized White Widow once in a while.” That little flash of hope over with, he was back to what I could tell was his usual grind. “But who would herd the sheep?”

“Galileo, don’t you see? Some other guy can herd sheep! I mean, what are your prospects out here? At best you can marry some other sad, hopeless Navajo girl and have kids who think a Ziploc full of hay with a smiley face drawn on it is a teddy bear!”

“I had a teddy bear like that once.”

“Stop it, Galileo! I don’t want to hear it!”

I didn’t expect to change his worldview overnight. But it was just appalling to me that a man in his late twenties, especially a half-Yazzie like Galileo, would accept such a base, chicken scratch existence. I hadn’t. I had pulled myself out of the gulleys and pocket canyons of my hometown Cottonwood, going to nursing school in Flagstaff. I’d even lived with a guy I didn’t truly, deeply love, just to have a place to stay while finishing nursing school. I mean, the guy was all right. He was more of a friend than anything.

But I’d done it. I’d gotten away from my mentally ill, alternately abusive and neglectful mother, and I’d made something of myself. Galileo could do it—somehow, anyhow! Toss newspapers, work in 7-11, go to night school… I was determined to help him off the Rez. What a damned bleeding heart I was!

“Do you have cancer?” I blurted. “The sore that never heals?”

At last, Galileo looked shocked. “What?”

“I mean, I know your brother does. Or did. It’s in remission now.”

“Oh, yes,” Galileo said, cheerful again. “And thank Asdzáá Nádleehé for that. He was always such a dear older brother. Once, he scooped out a whole watermelon for me. Filled it with watermelon-flavored jello.”

I had to laugh, though it was probably the saddest thing I’d ever heard. “But you don’t have cancer?”

“Not that I know of.” He waved at the ranger who’d let us in, but didn’t stop. “And now I must ask you, Miss Illuminati. What brings you to Chinle?”

I sighed deeply. “I’m a nurse. I heard the Navajo Area Indian Health Service has a hospital with sixty beds in Chinle.”

“Oh, Doctor Chesbrough’s building!”

“Yes, I suppose that’s it.” I had heard that name on the hospital’s website. NAIHC didn’t throw too much money at fripperies like websites, promotion, or slick brochures. It seemed to be all about the medicine, and perhaps basic and stripped-down at that.

“I went to the dentist there once, when a horse kicked me in the face. Oh, and a midwife, when I had a terrible gut pain.”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh. “Gut pain? What did it turn out to be?”

“A strangulated hernia that made my belly-button pop out to here!”

I made a face. “Galileo, that could be life-threatening. And they sent you to a midwife?”

“It was that, or a charcoal gazer. Or a feather gazer. Or a crystal—”

“So you’re saying they’re understaffed?”

“Well,” he said modestly. “They have a dozen mental health providers.”

I sat up straight. “Can you introduce me to this Dr. Chesbrough? Are you well-acquainted enough with him?”

“I should say so. What day is it?”

“The twenty-third.”

“I mean what day of the week?”

“Uh, Thursday.”

“All right.” Galileo made a sharp turn with his steering wheel, and pulled over to a roach coach, where my mouth watered at the scent of carnitas, but I didn’t drink the pop. I kept thinking of all those crappy plastic bottles by the side of the road. Folks tossed cold pills in, added chemicals, and they had enough meth for a couple hits. Shake and bake, it was known as.