In the kitchen I made Papa a glass of water with ice and took it to him in the living room. The window overlooked the yard, where we could see some birds pecking around. They flew away, scattering. When I was young, Edgar and Ray-Ray spent Saturday mornings in this room, watching old black-and-white movies with Papa: Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, Mickey Rooney—but I didn’t like slapstick, couldn’t understand the juvenile humor.

In the kitchen I made myself a salad. I found some blueberries and apple slices in the fridge, along with salad dressing. There was a half-full bottle of white wine, so I poured myself a glass and sat at the kitchen table. While I ate, I played the balloon game on my phone a while. Afterward I stepped outside on the back porch and smoked a cigarette. A little ways down the trail I saw my mother talking to the little girl and a man I assumed was her dad. He was dark-haired and rugged-looking, wearing a vest and boots. It was difficult to see exactly what he looked like from where I was standing, but he reminded me of someone I had seen in a movie somewhere, or on TV, maybe his overall posture and what he was wearing. I could make out his face a little, but not entirely. From afar he looked to be built, in good shape. He leaned down in a fatherly way to comfort Sarah as she embraced him, all the while talking to my mother. And then she turned and headed back, and I watched the guy walk the other way with Sarah.

“Well?” I said when she reached the porch.

“That was Sarah’s dad, but we couldn’t find the dog,” she said. “Poor thing, she was so upset. Her dad’s name is Eric.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said. “Is he married?”

“Married? He didn’t say.”

“Did he say how long he’s lived over there? I haven’t seen him before.”

“He didn’t say,” she said. “Hey, Wyatt should be home from school soon. Do you want to meet him?”

“I should go back home. There’s a phone call I need to make.”

“Call Edgar, maybe he’ll talk to you.”

“I’ve called him so many times, I’d be surprised if he talked to me,” I said. “But who knows? He’s so unpredictable.”

I WALKED BACK HOME. My quiet house breathed sadness. Every room I entered held a dim silence, and I started listening to the rooms breathe their presence into me. I could hear their whispers, or maybe they were the whispers of ancestors’ spirits. I thought about what Papa was saying about our ancestor Tsala walking the land around us. I knew I should listen for him, for courage. I imagined Papa speaking to the wind and sky as our ancestors watched us. Listening to the quiet house, I was again plunged into fear. I worried too much, the sort of unsettled, troubling concern one feels before a line of tornadic storms approaching. I knew my anxiety was stirring again, and I felt tense at the thought of Vin coming over.

I sat in the armchair in my living room and watched TV for a while, some movie about a pilot who went blind and refused help from his wife. He threw things around the house, shattering glass, knocking over lamps and tables. I looked outside and saw a cardinal on the windowsill. It spread its wings and flew away.

I turned off the TV and tried to relax, but I couldn’t. I called Edgar, but he didn’t answer. This time I didn’t leave a voice mail. I took a hot bath, which helped me feel better temporarily. Soon enough a weariness came over me, and I had the sense that something disorderly was flowing throughout the house. I felt restrained in the drowsy warmth of my bathwater, as if something was pressing down on me.

That night Vin called, as I knew he would. He was a little drunk. Again, I let it go to voice mail, and then listened to the message. “I’m coming over after a while,” he said. That was it, nothing more. I played a dumb balloon game on my phone, then turned off the lamp beside my bed and smoked a cigarette in the dark. Colette had become the smoke in my house, drifting around from room to room. I felt her presence in the darkness. I felt her presence everywhere lately: in my bedroom, in the hallway, when I was in the bath at night. Or was it the presence of someone else entirely?

How aware my senses were in the middle of the night, in the darkness, as if I could access some place I wasn’t able to during daylight hours. I felt the room’s pulsating heart, its breathing. I heard, too, a rhythmic sound, like soldiers marching in the distance. I had a vision of an intruder watching me through the window, then breaking down the door and dragging me out of the house. I felt like a young girl again, terrified after hearing a noise, and then waking Papa to tell him.

I drifted in and out of sleep, I think, hovering in that space between dreams and visions. At one point I heard the Cherokee phrase whispered in my ear: “Aniyosgi anahili, aniyosgi anahili.” Soldiers are marching, soldiers are marching. I heard it over and over, nudging at me like a bad dream.

At three in the morning, a knock on the door startled me. I sat up in bed. The knock came again, and I peeked out my window blinds, somewhat relieved to see Vin’s car. I turned on the light in the living room, and when I opened the door, he was already letting himself in, smelling of cigarettes and whiskey.

“You’re drunk?” I said.

He could barely keep from falling over. He moved in close and kissed me. I let him, but just for a minute. Then I pulled back and asked where he had been—and where was Luka? He frowned, moved in close to me, and kissed me again, sliding his hands down my arms. He started kissing my neck, and after a moment I pulled away.