“Here I am in the reservation of my mind.” Adrian C. Louis Screams drown the sound of hand on face; or is it a fist? It takes a cross country drive for the bruises to fade. There was snow in Flagstaff, temperature 106 in Phoenix. In a place called Needles an old man with brown skin, more like wood than leather, stared at me as I fingered the sandstone figures of wolf, raven, buffalo. There were questions about pictures on hides and bark, answers stopped short by a jerk of the arm, “Don’t talk to these people” hissed in an ear. “Can I go to the bathroom?” “Hurry up and go.” Walking past the old man, “There is a spirit following you. Do not let them chase it away.” The first hint I was switched at birth.