RD

You didn’t move to the rez to make friends. You moved because there was nowhere else to go. Everyone warns you off the four of them, the trouble since their friend died, they said, best left alone, but the trouble finds you first, in the form of a stolen van blocking your aunt’s driveway and a group of teenagers who don’t so much invite you in as fail to keep you out. Grief recognizes grief, even when nobody says the word out loud, and somewhere between petty crime and 3am parking lots, you stop being the new girl and start being theirs. California is still the plan. But you weren’t part of the plan.