“Well see us now,” she shouts with renewed vigor into the bullhorn. “Ignore us today when we fight for what is ours—for what was promised to us. We will not be moved. You cannot strip us of everything. You cannot steal the prophecies that light our way.”
There are a few shouts in response before she goes on.
“The prophecies foretell a generation rising up to defend, to fight, to recover what was lost,” she says, the tears continuing in a single stream from each eye. “I am that generation.”
Another collective shout swells from the crowd.
“We are that people who say enough!” Her eyes scan the crowd like a general searching for weaknesses to root out, for strengths to employ. “Say it with me. Enough. No more!”
“Enough! No more!” the crowd responds.
“Enough! No more!”
“Enough! No more!”
“Tu be hi’naah!” she yells, fist in the air.
“Water is life!” The crowd echoes back.
“Tu be hi’naah!”
“Water is life!”
Under the cover of applause, she climbs down the hill and slips into the line of bodies linked at the elbows and blocking the trucks.
“Do it,” my father says, his voice hard, angry. “They think they can throw off my schedule? They wanna fuck with me? They don’t even know where to start. Make the call.”
Beaumont nods and punches a few numbers in his phone before raising it to his ear.
“Move in,” he says.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I pin my question to him, but fix my eyes on the scene through the window. He spares me a glance, his mouth a stern, ungiving line.
“Balls of steel, son,” he says, his eyes slits. “Balls of steel.”
The sound of dogs barking jerks my attention from my father’s stony expression. A fleet of Dobermans on leashes bounds from trucks circling the site. Officers wearing padded vests face off with the protestors, their expressions blurred by Plexiglass face shields.
“Dad, no!”
The words have barely left my lips when the first mist of tear gas invades the air.
“No one will get hurt,” Dad says, his eyes trained on the scene playing out. “They have strict instructions to keep order and intimidate if necessary, but no one will get hurt.”
“You can’t be that naïve. Situations like this escalate in the blink of an eye. One wrong move, and there’s a shot fired and a dog bites, and you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands.”
Not to mention the guilt, but I’m not sure my father is capable of that anymore. I never thought his ruthless streak would run this far—would run roughshod over innocent people.
“Lawsuit?” my father scoffs. “Look out this window. Whose side does it look like the law is on?”
I do look out the window, and I’m assaulted by helplessness, guilt, and shame. Several protestors cover their eyes too late against the sting of gas, and they screech, rubbing furiously at the intrusion. Another group advances, positioning themselves directly in the path of the construction truck, in the path of what appears to be rubber bullets. I grit my teeth when I see the girl from the hill in that line. The Dobermans have turned, jaws pulled back from their teeth, and they advance on the protestors.
Advance on her.
I don’t stop, don’t think about the line I’m crossing, about my father, the architect of this cruel chaos. I don’t consider my own safety, only theirs.
Hers.
Her words throb in my ears and pulse in my veins.
No more. Enough.
Can you hear me? Can you see me?
I can’t unsee the proud line she cut into the horizon on that hill. Can’t unhear the heartbroken history she shouted to the wind.
I see you.
I hear you.
I throw the door open, and before I know it, I launch into a run across the dusty land.
I’m coming.
2
Lennix
A thousand needles pierce my eyes. I knuckle scrub my eyelids, even knowing from our protest training that flushing with water is the only thing that will help. Preparing for tear gas and doing it are two completely different things. Lesson number one in civil disobedience, but I’m not sure any amount of training could prepare me to face a snarling dog, held back by a flimsy leash. I stumble, my eyes clenched tightly against the discomfort, and slam into something hard.
“Sorry,” I gasp, reflexively reaching out to put space between me and whomever I plowed into. I ease my eyes open. Backlit by the sun, a man towers over me. Considering I’m in the middle of a riot, growling Dobermans barely kept at bay, tear gas still hanging in the air, and standing shoulder to shoulder with a line of protesters howling in pain and rubbing their eyes, it’s bad timing to notice this guy is gorgeous. And that he smells really good.
“Uh . . . um, hey,” I stammer. “I mean, hi.”
Idiot. Nincompoop. I just gave a rousing speech that still has my heart twisted and my cheeks wet from tears, but I’m tongue-tied because a hot guy showed up to protest the pipeline?
“Are you okay?” His voice rolls over me, deep and husky with the slightest trace of a drawl. Texas, maybe? Did he come all the way from Texas to join us?
“Uh, yeah.” I rub my eyes again. “I will be.”
I’m dragged back, figuratively, also literally, kicking and screaming, into this nightmare scene with frothy-mouthed dogs and masked cops wielding tear gas.
“Shit!” The curse comes from my right, and a grimace of pain skitters across the face of Jason Paul, one of the protesters and my teacher from fourth grade. He struggles to shake his hand free of a dog’s lockjaw bite. My heart leaps to my throat when a growling dog comes right for me. The really tall, great-smelling guy jerks me back and out of harm’s way, but gets bitten on the arm himself before the cop jerks on the leash. I don’t have time to thank him for sparing me or to apologize that he got caught in the cross teeth, as it were. I’m shoved forward, my arms wrenched behind me, plastic handcuffs drawn tight at my wrists.
“What are you doing?” I shout over my shoulder at the officer cuffing me. “This is a peaceful protest. We have every right to be here.”
“Private property, lady,” he murmurs close to my ear, spite slickening his voice. “Apparently your permits weren’t in order.”
“This is a mistake,” Tall and Good-Smelling says when they slip plastic cuffs on him, too.
“You’ll get a chance to have your say.” The officer shoves him toward a police van. “Call your lawyer.”
“Trust me. You don’t want my lawyer involved,” the guy says, his voice as cutting as the glance he shoots the cop. “Let me go. Let them go, and don’t give me that shit about permits. I know what this is.”
“This,” the officer says, pushing the guy’s head down to clear the van, forcing him inside, “is you having the right to remain silent.”
Six of us fill the benches lining the van interior, three on either side and facing each other. The cops give us bottles of water to flush the tear gas from our eyes as much as possible. We prepared for this moment, but I don’t think any of us actually expected to be arrested. Even if we had, none of us would have done anything differently. Everyone in this van has a vested interest in what happens with that pipeline. It would endanger the reservation’s water supply. It would desecrate sacred burial grounds. We all grew up drinking from that stream. Dipping in it for ceremonies that mark pivotal moments in our lives. Each of us has a reason to be here.