“Do you know where we’re going?” Luke asked. Jessie directed him through town to a plot of land on the outskirts. It was the home of Mary Yazzie, a middle-aged weaver who had made countless trips over the immense reservation the past few months, trying to gather support for the project. The ranch-style house sat alone and vulnerable-looking in the middle of a wide, empty stretch of desert. A small hogan squatted on one side, facing east. Sheep huddled together in a large pen and a black goat bleated at them from his post atop an overturned washtub. Parked in front of the house were three trucks and a fairly new-looking Jeep. Around to the side was a faded gold Buick without tires. Luke tapped the horn to announce their arrival as he slid in next to the Jeep, then took a breath. “Well, kid,” he said with a wry twist of his lips, “it’s showtime.” “You’re more nervous about this than I am.” “Nervous isn’t the right word.” He tapped his hat down on his head. “It’s been a long time.”
