Off the Reservation

Nate fell back but was already up again, running into the darkness past the bonfire, running for his dad, because that’s who it had to be walking in, it could only be hi— Who Nate ran into, the old man solid like a tree, was his granddad, the one he’d never known. If he’d gotten that death money, and if Nate’s had lasted them longer than a month, they wouldn’t even have to be up here in the bitter-ass cold. Jogging up the shoulder, falling once but getting back up, shirtless, one side of his face crusted with dried blood, his mouth open like he was a child, crying, was Nate Yellow Tail. Finally he moved her around to be in his lap again, just leaned over the table, his phone in both his hands.