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JAIL .
    He was three, and he remembered the way his mother looked standing in front of the sheriff. She was tall and proud and even in the dim lighting she looked very, very pale. “There’s been a mistake,” she said. “Mr. Flying Horse is one of my employees.”
    Will did not understand why his mother would say his father worked for her, when she knew that he worked for Mr. Lundt on the ranch. He did not understand the word “assault” although he thought “battery” had something to do with making Christmas toys work. The sheriff, a man with a florid cauliflower face, stared closely at Will and then spat not an inch away from his foot. “Ain’t no mistake, ma’am,” the sheriff said. “You know these goddamned Indians.”
    His mother’s face had pinched closed, and she pulled out her wallet to pay the fines his father had been charged. “Release him,” she hissed, and the sheriff turned to walk down a corridor. Will watched him grow smaller and smaller, the pistol at his hip winking each time he passed a window.
    Will’s mother knelt down beside him. “Don’t you believe a word he says,” she told him. “Your father was trying to help.”
    What he learned, years later, was that Zachary Flying Horse had been in a bar when there was an incident. A woman was being hassled by two rednecks, and when he’d stepped in to intervene, a fight had broken out. The woman had run out of the bar, so when the police came it was Zack’s word against that of two white locals.
    Zachary stepped out of the corridor in the jail behind the sheriff. He did not touch his wife. “Missus,” he said solemnly. “Will.” He lifted his boy up onto his shoulders and carried him into the hot Dakota sun.
    They walked halfway down the block before Will’s father swung him off his shoulders and caught his wife up in a tight embrace. “Oh, Anne,” he sighed against her hair. “I’m sorry to put you through that.”
    Will pulled on the edge of his father’s plaid shirt. “What did you do , Pa?”
    Zack grabbed Will’s hand and started down the street again. “I was born,” he said.
    Â 
    I T WOULD HAVE BEEN IMPOSSIBLE FOR HER TO MISS THE NOTE W ILL had left her, sitting as it was on the toilet lid with a fresh towel, toothpaste, a twenty-dollar bill, and a key. Jane , Will had written, I’ve gone to work. I’ll ask around about your husband, and I’ll try to call later today with some answers. I don’t have anything in the refrigerator so if you get hungry, go down to the market (3 blocks east). Hope you’re feeling better. Will.
    She brushed her teeth with her finger and looked at the note again. He hadn’t said anything about what she should do if she awakened with a perfect understanding of her name and address—not that it really mattered, since she still couldn’t remember. At least she was lucky. Her chances of running into a drug addict or a pimp on Sunset Boulevard had been much greater than running into someone from out of town, someone who’d leave a perfect stranger his house key and twenty dollars without asking any questions or expecting something in return.
    A light came into her eyes. She could do something in return; she could unpack for him. Her taste in decorating might not be like his—in fact, she had no idea what her own taste was like—but surely having the pots and pans in the cabinets and the towels in the linen closet would be a nice thing to come home to.
    Jane threw herself into the task of putting Will’s house in order. She organized the kitchen and the bathroom and the broom closet, but she didn’t really have to get creative until she got to the living room. There, in two boxes, carefully layered in newspaper, was a series of Native American relics. She unwrapped beautiful quilled moccasins and a long tanned hide