“I don’t think Dell was ever as close to him as you are.

You’re his twin. Dell was half grown before you two were born.”

“They’re still brothers.”

“Mm,” she says. She dumps a package of macaroni into the pot of boiling water. “But now he’s got his own kids to worry about.”

“What difference does that make?”

Millie rocks her body to the table and carefully sits down.

“None, that’s not what it is. He hates it when you bring up Gabe, because he’s the oldest and he thinks he should have done something to keep the family from getting torn up.”

Annawake looks at Millie’s tired face. The skin under her eyes looks bruised, the way it gets with every pregnancy. The things people go through for love. “It’s not his fault, what happened.”

“Not yours, either, Annawake, and look at you. I think it’s great you went to law school and everything. But you don’t ever stop.”

The egg of Annie slides through Annawake’s hold and vanishes again.

“I’m not blaming myself for Gabe.”

“If you say so. Seems to me like all of you do. Like you’re all married to him, some way.”

They both listen to the small, steady sounds of children in other parts of the house. Annie comes back to the kitchen again, this time dragging her white potty seat. “Bear,” she says.

“What would you do,” Annawake asks Millie, “if you found out somebody was trying to take a Cherokee kid out of the Nation?”

“It’s a whole different thing, asking me that now. You were little when they took Gabriel. I’m not little.”

“That’s what I mean. If it happened right now, what would you do?”

Millie pulls a bedraggled daisy out of the Mason jar and twirls its stem between her thumb and fingers. “It can’t happen now. That’s what we’ve got people like you for, isn’t it?

To watch out for the kids.”

Annawake feels the weight of this confidence exactly as if Millie had lovingly sat down upon her chest.

Tahlequah is a town that might as well roll up its sidewalks at sunset. Annawake knows what night life there is—the stray dogs stealthily marking streetside oaks, and the bootleg liquor houses where music from parked cars stakes an otherworldly claim on the night air. She’s walked these streets after dark since high school, pacing the length of her loneliness, Annawake the perfectly admired untouchable. Tonight she has nearly finished her circular route home. Her restlessness had no destination until just now, when she thought of a shoebox of old things she stashed in Millie’s carport shed years ago, before she left for Phoenix. The box seemed empty at the time; the only thing of any value at all was the gold locket her mother used to wear for luck. But tonight she could use the company of family secrets. She turns up Blue Spring Street, finding her way by moonlight.

The back shed has a metal door that complains when she scrapes it open. She snaps the chain of the overhead bulb at the same moment a thin slice of white cat, an anti-shadow, slips past her legs. “Hi, little ugly,” she tells it. The cat skits away and turns its head far sideways like a bird to look at Annawake. It’s been hanging around for a week or two—Millie even put out a can of tuna for it, and now the can is empty but the cat has nothing to show for it, still just ears and bones. Annawake feels guilty for getting its hopes up. In the pocket of her backpack she finds half a hard peanut candy bar degenerating to sand. “Come on,” she says, holding out the candy on her flat palm. The cat watches her with its head oddly tipped; it might be blind in one eye. It makes no move to come to her, but when she sets the candy bar on the doorsill the cat makes a predatory leap, holding the candy down with its paws, making cracking sounds as it jerks its tiny head up and down, laboring over the peanuts. It’s pitiful food for a carnivore. With one finger Annawake tentatively strokes its back. The cat allows this, but its little back is nothing. A hammock of fur slung between shoulder blades.

She finds her shoebox wedged under a pile of Millie’s baby equipment waiting to make its comeback. Annawake sits cross-legged on the floor with the box on her lap, sorting its treasures with her slender fingers. She finds the locket and works the catch gently to open it. Inside is a photograph of her mother and father in front of the old brick Cherokee County courthouse on the day they married. Her mother’s hair is blowing across her eyes, and she looks worried. She’s already carrying the beginnings of a boy whose name will be Soldier, who will die before he’s old enough to fight back.