Something Sacred Grows Here

By Jeff Nixa

A troubled Chicago physician sets off on an urgent road trip across the Plains to reach his dying father's bedside. When he arrives on the impoverished Indian reservation he fled as a teen he discovers his dwindling family sick, the neglected hospital facing closure, and the tribe locked in a culture war with outside energy developers.

 

It's not his fight, he thinks. Until he encounters a fierce young Lakota gang member, a sharp-tongued grandmother, and a former love caught in the crossfire.

 

Something Sacred Grows Here is a galloping ride through the rugged terrain of family, culture, and belonging, with a heart as wide open as the Great Plains (445 pages.)

 

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"Following the path of Lakota story-telling, Nixa offers an understanding of life on Pine Ridge that reveals the tragic conditions and shameful U.S. treatment of people there while shining a light on their resilience and efforts to remember what life should really be all about."  –Four Arrows (Wahinkpe Topa), former Dean of Education at Oglala Lakota College on Pine Ridge and author of Restoring the Kinship Worldview, Unlearning the Language of Conquest, et al.

 

"You can't fully understand until you've been there." A phrase that resonates with anyone who has spent much time in "Indian Country". Jeff has been there, so he understands.  This novel is filled with the nuances that are so prevalent among the Indigenous Peoples – people who struggle to keep one foot rooted in their history and cultural heritage/identity on the Reservation, while concurrently existing in the world of today's mainstream society…. an incredible challenge as the two are diametrically opposed.  Jeff's novel is a window into this reality. It is a great read and I hope that many people will enjoy the story, but learn from it too."   –-Paula Sibal, Volunteer Coordinator, Pine Ridge Reservation

 

 

All proceeds from this book are being donated to Re-Member, an independent non-profit organization on Pine Ridge Reservation serving members of the Oglala Lakota Nation through volunteer work, relationship building, and cultural exchange.

 

Jeff Nixa is the author of The Lost Art of Heart Navigation: A Modern Shaman's Field Manual (Bear & Company, 2017.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bison Press
• Release date: May 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9780997091137

Jeff Nixa

Jeff Nixa J.D., M. Div., CMT is the founder of Great Plains Guide Company, an array of nature-based spiritual healing programs including individual counseling, seminars, outdoor retreats, and wilderness trips. Jeff began walking the heart path in 2009 after a life-changing vision quest in the wilderness of northern Michigan.  A veteran spiritual guide, Jeff's work has spanned over thirty-five years. He first earned a law degree, then made a shift into spiritual care and counseling, working for two-plus decades as a university campus minister, professional hospital chaplain, pastoral counselor, and board-certified massage therapist. After the vision quest above he threw himself into the study of Indigenous healing practices, apprenticing with C. Michael Smith, traditional healers in the Peruvian Amazon and Andes Mountains in South America, Cree Nation healers and elders in Alberta, Canada, and Oglala Lakota teachers and spiritual elders on Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. On Pine Ridge he volunteered for several years with Re-Member and Red Cloud Renewable Energy Center and led his own program in conjunction with both organizations. Jeff has been a professional associate with Crows Nest Center for Shamanic Studies USA and is a graduate of Sandra Ingerman's shamanic teacher-training program. He published his first book, The Lost Art of Heart Navigation,in 2017 (Bear & Company.) After raising his family for over twenty years in an inner-city neighborhood in South Bend, Indiana, Jeff and his wife Regina moved in 2021 to a simple home on Christiana Creek in southwest Michigan. There he continues his fire-talk counseling work and hosts clients and visitors in their guest cabin. For more information on Jeff's programs or to contact him directly see his website at www.GreatPlainsGuide.net.

Book preview

Preface

After finishing the manuscript for this book, my first novel, I sent it out to ten different people for their feedback. I felt like a man who had just spent seven years alone in his garage building a small aircraft he wasn’t sure would fly. Was the story compelling, I asked the readers? Did it draw them in, lift them up, and take them somewhere? I basically needed to decide whether to finish the novel or drop it.

One by one the readers’ responses came back and to my great relief all were enthusiastic, honest, and helpful. Yes, they wrote, there were issues to work on, and they named all of them. But they really enjoyed the story, characters, dialogue, and setting. The aircraft can fly, they said. I was delighted and reassured.

Then came several reader-comments on an issue I had not asked them about but knew hung in the air like smoke from an approaching prairie fire. Do you think you’ll get any negative feedback as a white man, asked one, writing a story about Native American people on a reservation? Another, an attorney friend, wrote, "We live in very prickly times, and you need to be ready to answer questions as to why you are writing this story."

Why I am writing this story.

I volunteered on Pine Ridge Reservation for several years. The real history and conditions there broke my heart so wide open I couldn’t close it anymore. At the same time, the people living there inspired me with such groundedness, spiritual depth, resilience, and humor that it turned my ideas about whose culture was rich and whose was poor right on their head. So, I wrote this story. I wrote it for non-Native people like me who think they understand Native history but really don’t understand the history, who may want to help relieve the struggle but don’t see how they themselves are actively part of the problem. I wrote it for people like me who come from religious traditions that teach the holiness of creation yet treat nature like a rental car, or an inexhaustible commodity to be extracted, bought, and sold. I wrote it for people whose proud family history probably doesn’t include being the victims of genocide in the past 150 years.

I recommend you read this story and decide for yourself whether it exploits Indigenous cultures or sings about them. Whether it appropriates or gives back. Let me know, if in reading this story, you start thinking less about race and more about human beings. If you start seeing fewer strangers around you, and more relatives.

But what about the money, you may ask? All the money I’ll make off book sales? Writing about things I’ve learned and experienced from other cultures? Aren’t I just one more person taking from Native people and not giving back?

All proceeds from this book are being sent directly to Re-Member, a longstanding independent non-profit organization on Pine Ridge Reservation. Re-Member provides resources that improve the quality of life for members of the Oglala Lakota Nation through direct volunteer service, relationship building, and cultural exchange. Re-member is not affiliated with any religious, political, or policy group. See www.re-member.org.

Enjoy the story. Think about the indigenous people you come from. Give thanks for the fragile, luminous, blue-green planet we all share. And may you walk a good path that honors the earth and all your relations, wherever we came from.

Jeff Nixa

March 23, 2023

Chapter One

A lone buffalo stood on the centerline of a remote highway in western South Dakota. It was dark. The moon was up and the day’s heat was still rising off the pavement and the faint scent of wild sage hung in the air like after ceremony. It was the season of Wipazuka Wasti Wi. Summer Moon of the Good Berries.

Far to the north a hidden wall of clouds lit up from deep within, muted billows of pink and orange caught sneaking across the plains.

Darkness again.

Seconds passed. No thunder. Only the steady chirp of crickets all around.

The buffalo stood still. Very still. It faced east, the direction of visions, with the bright full moon reflected in its one shining black eye. The other eye was scarred and clouded over.

The tall roadside grasses around the buffalo began to stir. A casual wave at first, moving through the side oats and prairie bluestem. Then another wave. The long blades and seed heads leaned over against each other in dry whispers of occasional contact.

The breeze picked up. It grew stronger, and then the whole nation of plant people was bending and bowing down in long rolling waves like eagle dancers swooping down to earth over and over. A Styrofoam cup blew up out of the ditch and skittered down the road.

Tȟaté tȟanka came up fast and strong. The wall of cool air had rolled down all the way from Alberta and across Montana like an immense wave unleashed from the heart of the earth. It streamed into Dakotah and swept the upthrust peaks of Ȟe Sápa. It washed through the high rocky pine ridges to the somber faces of the four white men blasted in the granite there. But the four faces meant nothing to Spirit, and it poured down over the eastern slope and out through the eerie moonlit pinnacles and spires of the Badlands. It spilled out onto the wide floodplain and followed the flat empty highway coursing along mile after waterless mile until it finally reached the buffalo and hit the big animal broadside like a coal train.

The hard gust ruffled the woolly shag on the animal’s massive head and rattled the uprights of a nearby road sign.

Buffalo remained still, unmoved by the wind or the rattling sign. Or by the four words stamped on the sign’s sheet-metal face, neatly ventilated with bullet holes.

Horse Creek Indian Reservation

Chapter Two

Doctor Daniel Red Horse suppressed a yawn and reached up a gloved hand for the overhead light. He focused the beam on the bare leg of the young male patient lying on the ER gurney. Bright red blood puddled up out of the gunshot wound and trickled down both sides of the man’s thigh. His other leg was secured by the ankle to the side rail with a pair of handcuffs.

The man jerked his leg. The handcuffs rattled. "This is bullshit," he said.

A uniformed Chicago police officer sat in the corner reading a worn copy of Car and Driver. He didn’t look up.

Daniel adjusted the nose bridge of his disposable face mask, which was failing to mask the wafting funk of the patient’s clothing and breath alcohol.

I wanna leave! the patient said. Now!

Daniel cast a weary glance at the wall clock. 8:10 a.m.

That makes two of us, he said.

Walsh was late. Two hours late. The sun must be up now.

A nurse laid out a disposable suture kit and set a thin syringe on the blue drape next to a vial of Lidocaine. The syringe had a tiny needle. Daniel rolled his stool up close to the gurney and picked up the syringe.

The patient shot a horrified glance at the needle. What’s that for? he said.

To numb the skin, Daniel said.

He motioned for the nurse to irrigate the wound and gazed at the walls around him. Chicago Northwestern Medical Center had twenty-three ER treatment rooms, six trauma rooms, two helicopters on the roof, and all the medical technology money could buy—but not a single window by which to see the world outside. He might as well be sitting in a submarine on the bottom of the ocean.

Doctor? the nurse said. She’d finished the irrigation.

He refocused and drew up 10mL of the anesthetic.

I hate needles! the young man said.

Daniel flicked the vial and withdrew the needle. The nurse dabbed up the excess blood with folded gauze.

I said I hate needles!

Daniel set the vial down on the blue drape. Then stay out of emergency rooms, he said.

Say what? the man said.

You were very fortunate. That bullet missed your femoral artery and sciatic nerve.

You can’t keep me here!

True, Daniel said. But your friend over in the corner can.

The officer continued reading.

The patient tried to sit up. The nurse pressed her hand down on his shoulder. Antoine, she said. You need to hold still.

I ain’t done nothing! he cried. This is bullsh—Ow! OW!

Daniel injected several spots around the nickel-size entry wound.

This is illegal! Antoine yelled. He jerked and rattled his ankle cuff. False arrest!

The officer chuckled without looking up. You got shot by a guy with a pound of blow in his vehicle. And you got twelve hundred dollars in your front pocket.

Antoine glared at the officer. "You arrest any white people today?" he said.

The officer turned a page. Nope.

Daniel clamped a curved suture needle in a needle holder and pointed his chin at the patient’s neck. That scar on your throat, Daniel said. Tracheostomy?

"I got shot."

Daniel raised an eyebrow. In the center of your throat?

Yeah.

And you’re not dead, Daniel thought. Wow. He adjusted the angle of the needle in the holder. So, this is your second gunshot wound?

Third. Got one in my shoulder here.

Daniel looked over. Sure enough. Anterior deltoid.

"All in the front, the patient said. None in the back. Know what I’m sayin?"

Daniel sat back and considered the young man for a moment.

Have I treated you here before? Daniel said.

The fuck would I know? Antoine said. I was unconscious.

The officer nodded to himself. Daniel bent back to his work. He lifted an edge of the wound with a forceps and held the suture needle tip over the correct spot to begin.

Antoine was looking at him.

You Mexican? Antoine asked.

Daniel tightened. He repositioned the needle.

Oglala Lakota Nation, he said.

Say what?

American Indian.

Indian? Antoine said. Like tipis and shit?

I live in a condo, Daniel said, in Lincoln Park. Can you hold still?

So where you from? Antoine asked.

Daniel looked over at the nurse. Same thoughts: How a good dose of Versed would silence Antoine for the duration.

Someone knocked on the door.

Doctor Red Horse? It was the unit assistant.

Yes, Jan.

Dr. Sanik on line four.

I’ll call him back.

He’s going into surgery with that aneurysm patient, she said. He needs to talk about the scan.

Daniel sighed. Neurosurgeons. He sat up straight and rolled his stool back and peeled off his gloves.

*

He hung up the call from Sanik and stood at the busy nurses’ station. Another phone rang. He turned away from the sound. An EMT rolled an elderly woman past him on a gurney. The housekeeper lifted a mop from her bucket wringer and slapped it on the floor.

Daniel looked up at the wall clock. 8:34 a.m. He looked down at the unit assistant.

Jan, he said. Where’s Doctor Walsh?

She continued at her keyboard. Not here yet. Maybe stuck in traffic?

For two hours?

She shrugged, eyes still on her screen. Dallas tried calling him. He didn’t answer.

Charge nurse Dallas Kane was standing at the far desk phone, talking to someone. She looked over at them.

Well, please try again, Daniel said to the assistant. I want to go home.

The assistant looked up. I don’t know how you keep going, she said. Must be all those marathons you run.

Must be. Did you find his number?

"Hey, doc!"

The loud and very familiar voice rang out across the open unit. Daniel looked up. A wiry homeless man in a hospital gown had scooted his wheelchair out of an exam room into the hallway and was waving at him in exaggerated gestures. Daniel’s heart dropped like a lead X-ray apron.

Hey, doc! the man shouted. Where you been? I can’t take the pain anymore!

It was Jimmy. James R. Watkins, on his many intake forms.

And I need a meal voucher! the man shouted. I’m starving!

Daniel looked down at the row of new patient intake forms lined up in their slots on the counter. All on separate clipboards. All waiting to see him. He just stood there.

Dallas finished her call and hung up and walked over to Jimmy and told him to get back in his room. Then she came over to Daniel and grabbed both ends of the stethoscope around his neck and pulled him down the corridor like a wagon.

Dallas pushed open the break-room door and pulled Daniel inside. The room was unoccupied and lined with staff lockers and smelled of stale carpet. A small television hung from a corner of the room and was tuned to a cable news channel. Dallas pointed at the table.

Sit, she said.

Daniel looked over at the table. A large pizza box sat next to someone’s open can of Diet Coke. I have to get back to my gunshot patient, Daniel said.

Sit, Dallas repeated. She leaned back against the wall with her arms crossed.

Daniel remained standing.

What’s going on with you? she said.

He stared at the pizza box. I’m just tired, D.

We’re all tired, she told him. But you’ve been moping around here like a head injury patient. Is something bothering you?

He walked to the table and flipped open the pizza box. Empty crumbs. A white plastic pizza saver.

You don’t look well, Dallas said. You eat anything lately?

I just want to get home, Daniel said.

Drank anything?

I will.

She made a tsk sound, opened the cabinet and found a Styrofoam cup, filled it in the sink, and set it on the table. Daniel looked at the cup. He lifted the stethoscope off his neck like a noose and dropped it on the table and sat down.

Dallas waited.

Daniel sighed. And then he talked. About all of it. The endless stream of sick, injured, obese, and addicted human beings. The white girls swallowing handfuls of Tylenol to get their boyfriends’ attention and, oops, destroying their livers. The gang members showing up with gunshot wounds but refusing to talk to police or stay after treatment.

We’re just treating symptoms, Daniel said. I’m like a medical vending machine.

It’s an ER, Daniel.

"That black guy in nine? It’s his third gunshot admission. I just saw him in December. Now he’s back."

Can I ask you a personal question? Dallas said.

No.

I heard this was your fourth hospital.

Daniel stared at the TV.

And your third specialty? she asked. Is that true? After family medicine and psychiatry?

Internal medicine and psychiatry, he said.

Jesus. How many years is that?

He felt like someone was pushing a long needle into his brain. He shook his head absently.

Dallas waved her hand in front of Daniel’s face. Hello?

He looked at her.

Do you have real family anywhere? she asked him.

He looked down at the empty box. She waited. He shifted in the chair. He looked up.

I’ve been thinking about my grandmother lately, he said.

Your grandmother.

She used to talk about the old medicine, Daniel said. Before the reservation times. How everything was connected. Everything had a spirit. She’d sit in our trailer and tell us how the people talked to the hawks and the trees and the horses and the stones. They called the stones ‘the grandfathers’ because they were the oldest. They talked to everything. All these other beings helped them find the food and the medicine to survive.

So you talk to trees? Dallas asked.

"No, he said. I just feel like—"

What?

He shook his head. It sounds stupid.

What?

I feel like I’m in the wrong place, he said. Like I don’t belong here.

Dallas’ eyes narrowed. You work here.

No. Like I’m not living the life I’m supposed to be living.

You’re not?

No. You get what I’m saying? he asked.

She studied him. Yeah. You’ve overdosed on mushrooms.

He groaned and dropped his head back. Talking to you is like talking to a brick, he said.

Listening to you is like listening to a crack patient!

Daniel looked over the wall clock. 8:50 a.m.

Where’s Walsh? he asked. I was supposed to leave two and a half hours ago.

We can’t get ahold of him. The scheduler must have fucked up again.

"He wasn’t even scheduled?"

Who knows? Dallas said. You want me to ask Wiseman to come in early?

Please. Yes. This is ridiculous.

Dallas walked over to the door. Don’t forget the patient in Room C. Rash on his testicles. Been waiting over an hour now.

She walked out.

The TV was playing a commercial from the American Petroleum Institute with a young woman standing in a very green yard with two small children. She pulled the kids close to her and smiled.

Reliable energy, she said. My family depends on it!

An American flag appeared on the screen behind her. Clean oil and gas, the announcer said. It’s good for America.

Good for America, Daniel thought. We’re all gonna fry.

He picked up the stethoscope and hung the weight of it around his neck. Then he stood and drank the tepid cup of water and set it down and staggered back out into the battlefield.

*

Daniel paused to examine his work on Antoine’s leg. A neat row of eleven interrupted set-back sutures were lined up like little railroad ties. Satisfying.

Antoine pointed at Daniel. What happened to your face? he asked.

We’re almost done, Daniel said. Just two stitches left.

Come on. What happened?

It’s a burn.

I knew it! Antoine said. What happened?

Daniel rotated his wrist. The tip of the curved needle emerged from the other side of the wound. He drew the long suture thread out slowly. I tried to stop an argument, he said. Between my mom and dad. We were sitting by a fire.

You fell in the fire?

No.

You got pushed into the fire?

The sound of the cast iron pan scraping off the grate.

No, Daniel said. He threw another knot. Four throws. My dad hit me with the frypan that was sitting in the fire.

"Damn," the patient said.

Daniel hadn’t seen it coming until it was too late: the streak of glowing orange in the dark. Laying on the hard ground after that. Seeing the fire sideways. His mom screaming. The smell of his grilled skin and hair before he really felt it. He was nine.

That still hurt? Antoine asked him.

Daniel stopped. He’d thrown five knots in the last suture.

What hurts, Daniel said, taking the scissors, is seeing guys like you keep coming back here all drunk or high with bullets in your neck or little pieces of windshield sticking out your face. He looked up at Antoine and exhaled. It gets tiresome.

That’s my business.

"Not when you die, Daniel said, and your cousins are out there in the waiting room screaming and yelling and your baby mamma gets back here and cusses me out for not saving your life? Then it’s everybody’s business."

The officer lowered his magazine.

Fuck’s your problem? Antoine said.

Never mind, Daniel said.

You’re racist. Antoine looked at the nurse. I want another doctor. He’s racist.

Daniel rolled his stool back. Put it in your patient survey.

Another knock on the door.

Doctor Red Horse? The unit assistant was standing behind the privacy curtain.

No, Daniel said.

You have a call on line four.

No, I don’t.

It sounds urgent.

It’s an emergency room, Jan.

She stuck her arm around the curtain and held out a yellow sticky note. He groaned and rolled his stool over with his hands up and read her handwriting on the yellow square.

AUNT FROM S. DAKOTA

FAMILY EMERGENCY

A contraction deep in his chest. Old fear.

Line four, Jan said.

Daniel swallowed. My aunt? Are you sure?

Exam B is empty, Jan said. She withdrew her arm.

*

Daniel pushed through the door of exam room B and stood in front of the wall phone. The door closed behind him. The room went dark but for the thin bar of light beneath it from the hallway. He stood looking at the flashing red light on the phone.

He cleared his throat. He picked up the receiver and held it to his good ear.

Doctor Red Horse, he said.

Daniel, said an old woman’s voice. Familiar. From far away.

Yes?

This is your aunt Carole.

She’d used the Lakota expression for aunt. Mit’únwin.

Aunt Carole? he said.

"Where are you?" she said. The poor phone connection. Typical on the Rez.

I’m in Chicago.

No, she said. I mean are you coming?

The line hissed and buzzed with static. Her voice was gone.

Daniel stood alone. Always in the dark.

Her voice returned, —said, are you coming or not?

Coming where?

Home, she said. To the Rez. Didn’t you get my letters? He’s—

The line hissed and cut out again. Daniel leaned into the phone straining to hear.

"—all here, she said. We’re waiting for you."

Daniel stepped around the dangling phone cord. My phone line’s bad, he said. Say again?

Bernie had a heart attack and he—

More static on the line. Electronic sounds, rising and falling in an eerie wail like lost spirits.

—wants to see you, his aunt said.

He blinked. Wants to see me? he said. Why? He never did before.

Clicks on the line. Silence. More static.

Hello? he said.

—and said her name was Jess and you might remember her.

Jess? he said. "Jess Running Deer? She’s there?"

More static on the line.

Hello? he cried.

Nothing.

Daniel held his breath. He clutched the phone.

The line cleared up. No static at all.

Daniel, she said, her voice as clear as if she were standing next to him. Your father is dying and he wants to see you.

He didn’t move.

Daniel? she said. Are you—

The line hissed and made a two-tone ba dip and went silent.

The red light on the base unit of the phone went dark.

Chapter Three

Jessica Running Deer stood at her kitchen counter chopping carrots for dinner. She looked out the window and paused.

The fence gate was open.

She stepped to the window and looked out.

Oswego was gone.

The knife clattered on the cutting board. She grabbed a bridle off the wall hook and pushed through the screen door.

She stood out in the gravel drive with her hand over her eyes and searched the sloping yard to the east. The marsh still had water in it from the spring rains and the prairie had greened up. She slipped two fingers in the corners of her mouth and whistled loudly. She waited.

A small bumping sound. From the north side of the house.

She strode around the corner of the house and stopped. The big animal stood behind the new horse trailer looking at her. She sighed.

There you are, she said, walking over. What are you doing?

He seemed fine. Her eyes darted around the dirt yard and all around the stable building. Just sandbur and horseweed. No sign of rattlesnakes.

She reached out and Oswego lowered his head to her touch. He seemed to have something on his mind. He swung his head over to the new horse trailer.

What? she said.

The horse swished its long black tail. She chuckled.

You don’t even like that trailer, she said. I should have kept the old one.

She led him back into the enclosure and latched it securely and went back into the house.

Maggie was sprawled on the sofa in the front room texting on her phone. Her brown legs were so long now. A stack of schoolbooks sat on the rug untouched. Jess stepped around the baskets of dirty laundry in the hallway and went back to chopping the carrots. Worth about a dollar a piece, if she figured in the gas to Rapid every week to find fresh produce.

Mom, why are you chopping so loud? Maggie yelled.

I’m making soup for dinner.

It sounds like you’re mad or something.

Jess pulled another carrot from the bag and set it on the cutting board. The counter was covered with patient charts and household bills, including the bill for Maggie’s counseling. A small vase of fresh-cut wildflowers sat on the kitchen table. Purple coneflower, bergamot. A few prairie rose blossoms, delicate pink.

I’m hungry, Maggie yelled.

Well make yourself some lunch, Jess said. There’s some lettuce and tomatoes in the fridge.

No response.

Did you see the apples I got you? Jess added. They’re organic.

A loud sigh and movement in the front room. Maggie appeared in the doorway. I’m bored, she said.

Have an apple, Jess said. Or a carrot.

"You have a carrot."

How’s the homework going?

I’m sick of it.

Well, keep at it. You’re almost graduated. Let’s not screw this up.

Maggie opened the refrigerator and pulled out a Styrofoam carry-out box. Jess frowned.

You’re not actually going to eat that are you? Jess said. It’s a week old.

Cheesy fries and chicken wings never go bad. Mm.

Where did you get that anyway?

Ryan.

Jess felt the slight shift in her belly. The creeping emptiness of Maggie slipping out of her life, one day at a time. Jess scraped the chopped vegetables into a Crock-Pot and placed it in the sink and turned on the water.

Hey, I picked up the brochures from the college, she said. We can go through them after dinner. They have some great degree programs I think you’d like.

Maggie picked at a cold chicken wing. No thanks, she said.

Jess’s cell phone rang. She watched the Crock-Pot filling up. The phone rang again.

Mom. Get your phone.

I’m busy.

"It’s annoying."

The phone rang again.

Mom!

Jess shut off the water and picked up her phone. Hello, she said.

Hey, beautiful, a man’s voice said.

Jess waved Maggie out to the front room. Maggie didn’t move. Jess pushed past her and went out to the porch. The screen door slammed behind her.

Hello, she said. There was no warmth in her voice.

The man made a loud exhale. So did I do something wrong? he said.

Maggie was standing at the screen door and mouthed the words, Who’s that?

Jess pointed a finger straight back into the house. She then walked around back to the horse trailer.

You still there? the man said.

This isn’t a good time, Jess said.

You said that last time, he said. Anything wrong?

No.

At the hospital?

There’s always something wrong at the hospital, she said. She looked out at the land.

You should quit that job.

And live on what? Jess said. Raise Maggie on what?

He sucked in his breath. I’d say she’s about done with the raisin’ part. Been looking pretty grown up to me. Ready for anything.

That’s the problem.

I could help you, he said.

Look, I need to go, Jess said. Maggie’s here now.

I’d like to see you again.

Jess closed her eyes.

We could head up to the Hills for the weekend, he said. Check out the casinos.

I don’t like casinos, she said. You know that. A stray wind blew strands of her long black hair to the north. The direction of the ancestors.

Okay, he said. We’ll just get a nice room up at Sylvan Lodge. Sit in the sauna. Go out to eat. See a live show. Whatever.

She had a thumbnail between her teeth.

I’ll get you something nice, he said.

You got me plenty, she said. I’m fine.

He chuckled.

What?

Jessica Running Deer, he said. You are my favorite mystery.

A plume of dust was rising on the road half a quarter mile to the east of her house. Coming toward her. A car.

How’s your horse doing? the man said.

The car slowed down as it approached the entrance to her drive.

I gotta go, Jess said.

Already?

I can’t talk. Bye. She hung up.

The car turned into the foot of the long drive. Jess turned and walked into the house. Maggie was heading out.

No, Jess said.

No? Maggie said. "Why not? You’re talking to your boyfriend."

"He’s not my boyfriend, Maggie. And you’re not going out."

He just wants to talk to me. Is that a crime?

When you’re grounded, yes. I told you the rules.

The car pulled up and the gravel popped and crunched under its tires and it stopped. A dusty Ford Taurus sedan with no front bumper. The driver honked the horn. Maggie leapt to the mirror by the door and checked herself and Jess caught the faint fragrance of perfume. Rich and delicate, floral. With an earthy note of spice. Maggie had known he was coming.

You have one minute out there, Jess said. Sixty seconds.

Maggie slid past Jess and went outside. Jess watched them through the window.

Maggie was talking to the driver. Then listening to him. Then she was laughing and looked out at the prairie, the strands of her long hair lifting and blowing free.

Jess’s phone rang again. She turned and looked at the number. The hospital. She wiped her hands and picked up the phone.

Jess here, she said.

She listened. She watched Maggie through the window. She looked at her watch. All right, she said. I’ll be there in about fifteen.

She hung up. Maggie had bent down into the driver’s window and stayed there a long time. She stood back up and waved. The Taurus backed out and drove back down the drive.

Maggie came back in and saw Jess gathering her things. Where you going? Maggie said.

The hospital, Jess said. Something’s wrong with the medical gasses again. The oxygen.

You should quit that place, Maggie said. Everyone says it’s a death trap.

Oh, that’s a great idea, Maggie. Then we’ll have no income at all. And we can move back to Sonia’s trailer and eat commodity food and your boyfriend can support us with that great job he has. Oh, what’s his job again? I can’t seem to remember.

Maggie stared at her. God, Mom. What is your problem lately?

Everything, Jess thought. Everything. She collected her wallet and keys and went to the back bedroom and returned and lifted her photo ID lanyard off the wall hook. Maggie had returned to the living room. She lay sprawled on the sofa and was texting someone.

No boys, Jess said. "Don’t ride Oswego. And finish your homework before supper. You are this close to getting into college," she said.

Why don’t you just bury me in a deep hole, Mom?

Jess bent down and kissed her on the head. Her hair smelled like weed.

"That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid, ch’unkshí," Jess said.

Chapter Four

Daniel walked through the door to the hospital’s administration suites and the receptionist looked up and smiled. She was a professionally attractive woman with carefully applied makeup and tasteful gold jewelry. Daniel stood there in his limp ER scrubs and two-day beard.

Is Howard in? he asked.

Yes, she said. But he’s leaving for a meeting downtown. I can see if he’s available later.

Daniel shook his head and walked past her. He turned down the long, carpeted hallway and walked by the board members’ portraits on the walls. He stopped at the last office on the right. The door was open.

Doctor Howard M. Dietz, president of medical staff, stood by his desk pulling his jacket on. He was tan and fit and his silver hair was perfectly groomed. The tall windows behind him overlooked Grant Park, and Navy Pier to the north. Daniel knocked.

Dietz looked up and smiled. He came around the desk with his hand extended.

Daniel, he said. This is a surprise. I’m just leaving for lunch with the mayor.

They shook hands. Dietz wore cologne.

I have a problem, Howard.

Oh?

I just got a call that my father is dying. Back on the reservation.

Dietz dropped the smile and put on his empathy face. I’m sorry to hear that, Daniel.

We weren’t close.

Ah, Dietz said, recalibrating.

My family wants me out there, Daniel said, but there’s no backup coverage in the ER. We’re down two docs right now and the rest of us are exhausted.

Dietz nodded. When would you be back?

I don’t know. A few days. Not long. Monday.

Dietz did the numbers in his head. He looked at his desk calendar and tapped a finger on it. Okay, then, he said. I’ll have Jackie get you a locum. Go be with your family.

Dietz reached over and shut off his desk lamp. Daniel stood there.

Something else? Dietz said.

Daniel took a breath and shifted his feet. I’ve been rethinking that offer of yours, he said. For the new position.

The community medical liaison.

Yes. Is that still open?

Dietz hesitated for a beat. He glanced at his watch. Sit down, Daniel. He walked back behind his desk and sat down in his leather high-back chair.

Daniel sat.

Risk management called me yesterday, Dietz said. About a case you had last week. A young woman came into our ER with a yeast infection?

Yes, said Daniel. His heart fluttered.

You prescribed a penicillin derivative that the patient was allergic to. And she went home and took the medication.

Daniel nodded. Yes.

And she went into cardiac arrest.

Daniel nodded.

In front of her kids, Dietz said.

A siren wailed past on the street below.

Yes, Daniel said. He felt the flush in his face and jaw. I ordered the medication. The nurse hadn’t recorded the patient’s allergy on the intake and I didn’t see the—

Dietz held up his hand. It’s okay. Mistakes happen. We understand that. But I’m hearing other things lately. He turned in his chair to a stack of files and pulled a folder off the pile. He turned back and picked a pair of glasses up off his desk and put them on. He flipped through the file and stopped at the last page.

This is your HR file, Dietz said. Says your patient reports are not being submitted on time. And you’ve been missing committee meetings.

Well, that—

And your patient satisfaction scores are dropping.

Daniel exhaled. Dietz looked at him over the top of his glasses.

You know we’re up for reaccreditation this fall, Dietz said.

Yes, Howard. Everyone in the hospital knows that.

"We don’t just want to pass the accreditation, Daniel. We want first ranking. In the nation. First. Not third or fourth behind Mayo and Cleveland and Johns Hopkins again."

I understand, Daniel said. And I think the new position would help a lot. I could be good at that.

You’d be perfect for it, Dietz said. "I told you that before. With your Indian poverty background, your putting