The Brave: Chapters 19–24

I’m in the middle of math class, where the teacher has suggested I sit in the back, so I don’t bother anyone with my counting. I stare at my worksheet and can’t help but see the irony. All these numbers we are working on, and solving, are perfectly normal.

I don’t want to hate people. I need to think of people that are good. I know they are out there. Like my mom, who has not yet once showed any sign of fatigue or frustration when speaking with me.

Orenda’s dad is sitting cross-legged in the center of his front yard staring up at the sun with his eyes closed. What is he doing, meditating?

If I thought it was possible, I'd work out every day and devote my life to being able to look like him one day. But it's not possible. I’m too pale and scrawny.

I leave the house and make it to the fence while trying to look as cool and calm as possible. I don’t want her to see me so clumsily smitten.

She hits the floor, landing on her knees, and winces.

But right before I'm about to drown in the inundation of letters, I open my mouth and let them all surge out of me.

She does need my help. She’s basically hyperventilating, and I’m just standing here.

I rush forward and reach for the rope, but as I do, she loses her grip on it and the wheelchair plummets to the ground.

My mom is on the phone, and from her tone of voice and animated body language, I glean that she’s in a really good mood.

My mom is on the phone, and from her tone of voice and animated body language, I glean that she’s in a really good mood.

“Yes. He’s been deployed overseas for the last year. That was him on the phone. He’s coming home!” she says, and her feet just can’t stop floating off of the floor.

Foxy gets the hint and walks out of her room, which is mostly decorated with plants and exotic flowers.

Salem would just be another town in America and not be shrouded with such a dark history.

Since the radio doesn’t have reception this deep in the reservation, my mom is compensating for it by belting out one of her favorite rock songs a cappella.

Since the radio doesn’t have reception this deep in the reservation, my mom is compensating for it by belting out one of her favorite rock songs a cappella.

I clutch the sides of my seat as the drive becomes more bumpy the farther we venture in.

She then presses on my forehead and streaks her finger down toward my eye. I close them instinctively as she drags her finger farther down my face, stopping just below my cheekbones.

I’m hearing sounds I’ve never heard before. It’s like a concoction of voices: talking, screaming, laughing, and singing all at once.

“I’ll be right back,” my mom says, and walks off into the darkness toward a few tents on the outskirts of the event.

“I meant no disrespect, Collin. Aji was good people.”

As she approaches me, I notice that even her wheelchair looks cooler; the two wheels have been upgraded to have tires much thicker than the originals, like a dirt bike’s tires, made for rough terrain.

She weaves in and out of the crowd, maneuvering her wheelchair like a rocket ship avoiding asteroids in space.

I bid adieu to all of earth’s hooters, crawlers, and swayers and walk back to the crowd of humans. Everyone is having such a good time that it feels nice just to watch them.

A whole family can live in one, well, if you forgo the whole “needing privacy” thing.

The heat intensifies once we are alone. The air quickly becomes so hot and thick that I want to run out of here and check my clothes for flames, but I don’t.

The wolf growls and steps toward me. As it moves, black numbers and letters shimmer in its fur, the way a dragonfly’s iridescent skin shimmers when it flies.

Cold air immediately pats me down as I exit the teepee, brushing off the sweltering heat still holding on to my body.

She takes a moment, assessing how to respond.

Having another child was going to be very tough for me, but I was ready to do it...But your father’s parents were very adamant about raising you, giving you the life I couldn’t.

He struts to the free-throw line and waits for the ball.

But I don’t need time when I’m out for vengeance.

Again, the disgruntled class race up and down the court.

“You retaliate in any way, then the next chance I get, it won't stop until you start growing a beard,” I say, and walk away in my first ever victory.

Our lives are intertwined, even now, but we are still separated betwixt life and death.