It takes twenty minutes, with much grinding of gears and spinning of wheels, but Andrews jerks the pickup to a stop just on top of the slope and just short of the trees.

He slams the door behind him emphatically. His freckles stand out against the flaming red of his face; sweat runs down from the brim of his h. He says equably, "Fuck you, buddy. You, and the horse you rode in on, and your grandpa’s paint pony. It woulda been easier to push the goddam rattletrap. You got any idea how we’re gonna get it down again?"

"No sweat. We just drive it along this level section here till we get to the end of the treeline." Manny pats his pocket. "Then we cut the fence and use the road. Give me a hand here, will you?"

Without ceremony, they bundle Dietrich into a length of plastic, careful to retrieve his hat and weapon. Getting almost a hundred kilos of dead weight into the truck bed three-handed leaves Manny swearing with frustration at his useless shoulder. The wolf, still frozen and seventy pounds lighter, is easier. Andrews draws the body carefully onto a waiting blanket, then onto a tarp. Together they carry him gently as a child back to the truck and, after a moment’s hesitation, settle him in the back of the cab.

"You sure you don’t want to bury him out here?" Andrews asks as he folds a disturbed length of plastic back into place. "Taking him in—it doesn’t feel right."

"It isn’t right," Manny answers grimly. "He’s evidence of a crime, though. And nothing against you, buddy, but he’s the best corroborating witness as to why I shot that piece of shit."

Over the next hour, they find three more traps. The coyote, caught by his tail, looks up at them with wary eyes that still hold a glint of mischief, and his lip rises in a defiant sneer as Andrews raises the Winchester to place the tranquilizer dart accurately in his thigh. A few moments later he is out cold and in one of the wire cages, a blanket tucked around him against the chill. The badger in the fifth trap, caught by a foreleg gnawed down to bone, is beyond help, eyes glazed with fever, sides rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths that make an audible gurgling sound. Andrews raises the dart gun questioningly, and Manny shakes his head. "That’s sepsis," he says. "Pneumonia. Nothing we can do except end his suffering."

Andrews reaches for his pistol, but Manny stops him. "Wait." Opening the trap, he gently draws the steel teeth back from the shattered leg. The badger watches him dully from dimming eyes, making no resistance. "Easy, boy. Easy." Then to Andrews. "Now. Let him die free."

The last trap holds the bobcat. She is freshly caught, her wound bleeding bright scarlet into the snow. At their approach, her nose wrinkles in a snarl, baring fangs fit to tear off a man’s hand. Hissing, she backs away from them, dragging trap and chain with her to the limit of its length. "Oh boy," Andrews observes, unnecessarily. "This one’s not gonna cooperate."

When he finally does get a clear shot, they lay her carefully in the other cage, her wide unseeing eyes black, rimmed with gold. Manny runs his hand gently over her flank as he settles a blanket over her, rubbing behind her fine ears, still unmarked by fighting. "We’re gonna help you, girl," he whispers. "You’re a real beauty, you are."

Andrews grins as he starts the truck and it lurches along the flat strip parallel to the treeline. "You never told me you were a cat person. You’ve got a thing for that bobcat like your cousin the vet has for wolves."

"Yeah." After a moment he says, "That’s why I put up such a fight to get into Allen’s squadron. Bobcats."

"That’s what they’re calling her, you know."

"Allen? Bobcat? More like man-eating tiger, you ask me."

"Nah, your cousin. ‘She-wolf of the Cheyenne.’"

Manny snorts. "Well, I guess it’s better to have a she-wolf chew your ass to shreds than just anybody. She’s not gonna like it that we brought the old man back..."

"Sounds like cold comfort to me." Andrews hauls left on the steering wheel, and brings the truck to a juddering halt in front of Callaghan’s fence. "Now what?"

Manny hands him the wire-cutters. "Clip the fence. Get on the road. And drive like hell."

* * *

It’s well past midnight when Kirsten, bone weary and with a headache that has increased its level exponentially, enters the house. Her usual greeter is conspicuously absent, and she makes her way through the kitchen quietly until she stands in the doorway to the living room. The rhythmic thump-thump of Asimov’s tail gives his location immediately, and as she steps closer, she can see his sparkling eyes from atop the human hip he is using for a pillow.

Stepping around the couch, her vision is filled with the sight of Dakota half-curled on her side, facing the fire and fast asleep. Her crooked arm supports her head as her hip supports Asi’s. Her chest rises and falls in a slow, easy and silent rhythm. Her flannel overshirt lies draped over one arm of the couch, leaving her in her black tank and jeans.

Kirsten’s eyes travel with true pleasure over the sweeping curves of her bronzed and muscled body, taking in each facet as if seeing it for the first time. Her own body warms and flushes, her exhaustion quite suddenly a thing of the past as a new, and seldom felt energy flows through her on eagle’s wings. Asi watches her curiously, but doesn’t move from his self-appointed perch. Kirsten circles around him, quiet as a wraith, and slowly lowers herself to the ground by Dakota’s head. The Vet’s face is obscured by the thick fall of her hair, which shines like silk in the light of the cheerily crackling fire, beckoning Kirsten silently to run her fingers through its inky mass.

She heeds the summons, barely daring to breathe as her fingers, not quite steady, tentatively brush against the silken strands. When Dakota’s breathing remains deep and easy, Kirsten, emboldened, brushes the thick locks away from her face with a slightly firmer touch, smiling as the Koda’s flawless profile is slowly revealed. Her skin is burnished copper, unlined and fairly glowing with vitality. Her lashes, long and dusky, rest softly on her cheek, creating tiny crescent moon shadows on the soft flesh beneath.

Whining softly, Asi tickles her with his cold, wet nose, and she giggles softly, lifting her hand from Koda’s hair and pushing him away. Looking affronted in a way that only German Shepards can, he nonetheless settles, resting his head back on his human pillow.

When Kirsten turns back, she finds herself swallowed whole in eyes the color of the Caribbean. She forgets the mechanics of breathing as Dakota’s gaze, warm and tender and yet with a spark of fire hot enough to scorch, takes in every inch of her face. A strong, long-fingered and perfectly sculpted hand raises up, and fingers trace themselves with impossible gentleness over the cupid’s bow of Kirsten’s lips.

"Nun lila hopa."

The voice that speaks the words is deep and husky with sleep, and Kirsten feels a current rocket through her body. She smiles against the butterfly touches, understanding the sentiment, if not the words themselves.

"Thank you," she whispers. "And you…you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen."

This earns her a smile that is equal parts radiant and innocent, and her breath leaves again with the intensity of emotion washing over and through her. She moves not a muscle as Dakota’s fingers leave her lips and trail along her jaw, then slide down her neck, lingering at a pulsepoint she is sure is bounding like an orchestral bass drum. They travel further, soothing against the hollow of her throat, feeling the skin as it stretches taut from a convulsive swallow.

Still smiling, Koda lifts her head and props it on her free hand. Her fingers blaze a molten trail down the "V" of Kirsten’s collar, and still themselves there, resting lightly on the fabric covering the rest of her body from view.

"I love you, you know," Kirsten says, and then freezes, unable to believe she’s actually spoken her heart aloud.

"That’s good," Dakota replies after a moment, gently tugging on the collar of her shirt, "because I love you, too."

"You…do?" Kirsten’s voice is soft and filled with wonder.

"Mm. I do."

The gentle tug comes again, and Kirsten goes with it, lowering her head and brushing against Koda’s offered lips.

"So very much," Koda whispers, deepening the kiss as she helps Kirsten stretch out on her side. Asi gives an affronted grunt, but moves away as the two women settle together, bodies touching and moving along their lengths.

Tracing the tips of her fingers over the delicate whorls of Kirsten’s ear, Dakota deepens the kiss, parting her lips and inviting her inside. Moaning softly, Kirsten accepts the invitation. It’s all she can do not to crawl inside this woman who has so effortlessly stolen her heart, and she growls in frustration as her hands clamp down on the thin material covering Koda’s broad back, stretching and pulling the fabric near to tearing.

Caught up in the emotion of the moment, Dakota allows the passion between them to rise, breasting new heights as her tongue tenderly duels with Kirsten’s, tasting their shared excitement on her palate as the flavor of their kisses changes and grows heady.

Breathing deep through her nose, she deftly begins to bank the fire before it blazes beyond her ability to control. It’s not that she doesn’t want what is happening between them. Far from it; she finds herself wanting it more than she can ever remember wanting anything. But she knows, surely as she can feel the frantic beat of Kirsten’s straining heart against her breasts, that there is a time for everything, and the time for a full exploration of their love is not yet.

The transition from burn to simmer is so seamless that Kirsten doesn’t even protest as Koda softly pulls away. Her eyes flutter open and she smiles, happy beyond knowing. "This is nice," she purrs, her voice husky and a full octave lower than her normal speaking voice.

"Mm. Very nice." Tipping her head, she rubs her nose along Kirsten’s, then dips further to steal a soft kiss before pulling away again. "I love you."

Tears immediately spring to Kirsten’s eyes. Her smile is radiance itself. "You don’t know how it feels to hear you say that."

Tenderly wiping the tears away with her thumb, Koda leans in for another tender kiss. "I think I might have some idea," she murmurs, lingering for another moment. She then slides her cheek against Kirsten’s silken skin and holds her in a warm, tight embrace, reveling in the closeness and the love that permeates her soul.

This is right. As right as anything could ever be, even in a world gone totally wrong. She lets the last of her barriers slip free without a parting thought, and opens herself totally to the love this one special woman offers up so easily.

CHAPTER THIRTY

"GOD DAMN YOU all, I want justice for my father!"

"Mr. Dietrich," Harcourt begins patiently, "we know you’re grieved by the loss of your father. But we have a procedure here—"

"You have a procedure here that’s taking the word of the sons-of-bitches who killed him! He’s not here to speak for himself!"

Koda’s hands clench into fists on her knees, fingers curled so tightly into the palms that her skin shows white and taut above the sharp angles of the bones. All through Manny’s account of finding and freeing Dietrich’s victims, all through Andrews’ corroborating testimony, she has held herself small and quiet behind a barrier of calm, withdrawing into the far places of her mind where her grandfather and Wa Uspewicakiyapi himself have taught her to seek refuge from pain. And in those places is Kirsten.

With a conscious effort, Koda forces herself to ignore the anger battering against the walls of her refuge from without, forces back the rage that burns white-hot just beyond the limit of conscious thought, that requires only a moment’s inattention to burn through. Instead she deliberately recalls the pressure of Kirsten’s body against her own, the generous yielding of her mouth. Deliberately too, she recalls the sense of rightness in their coming together, as if her own journey from her parents’ home, Kirsten’s struggle over half a continent, had found their appointed ends in the snow at Minot.

Everything happens precisely as it should. Precisely.

And where, she wonders, does that come from? Dakota is no fatalist. Nor, she knows, is Kirsten. If the last months have taught her anything, it is that fate is shaped by human will, or by lack of it. Many of the uprising’s victims have died not so much from the androids’ onslaught as from a moment’s unbelieving paralysis. Like Kirsten, she has come to Minot and now to Ellsworth by a series of refusals to be stunned into inaction, by choices to fight against an enemy still unknown. And out of those actions has come the warrior she has felt dormant within her the whole of her life. And out of them, too, this unexpected love, ripening now in its appointed season.

"No!"

The shout breaks her calm, jerking her mind abruptly back into the anger that pulses off Dietrich in waves. With an effort she stifles the rage that rises to meet it: if he did not set the traps himself, then certainly he knew of them, was complicit in the pain and death of every creature caught in them. He stands before the court, his face blotched scarlet, his hand raised as if to strike out at the men and women of the jury panel.

"Sit down, Mr. Dietrich." Harcourt motions to the uniformed Sergeant still standing at the door of the Judge’s Chambers. "If you persist in this disruption, I will have the Bailiff remove you.

Dietrich’s color remains high, but he pauses for a moment, deliberately lowering his hand to rest at his belt. When he speaks his voice is quieter, though none of the tension has gone out of the corded tendons at his neck. "You heard them. They were robbing his traps. He had a right to defend his property."

"Given that, item—the Judge ticks off his points one by one on his fingers-- leghold traps are illegal; and that, item, trapping of any kind without a license is illegal; and further, that the grey wolf remains a federally-listed endangered species, I’m not sure that the late Mr. Dietrich could lawfully claim any property interest in the fruits of his activities. Now: sit down, sir. Dr. Rivers, please."

Dietrich resumes his seat as Koda takes up her place beside the table with the projector. As she steps up to the low dais, a murmur runs through the room. Deliberately she turns her eyes away from the crowd. She knows what she will see in their faces: admiration in some, awe in others, contempt in a very few still trapped in the prejudices of an age long dead. It is the same almost everywhere she goes now, except for the clinic or among the men and women who have stood shoulder to shoulder with her under fire and who give her the respect of one warrior to another, no less and no more.

"I must warn the court that some of what I have to show you is graphic and disturbing," she says as she unpacks the laptop and attaches the cable to the projector. "Some of these slides are from photographs taken by Lieutenant Rivers and Lieutenant Andrews at the sites of the traps and depict injured animals in pain. Others show victims that did not survive."

She begins with the snapshot of the coyote, which draws a nervous giggle from the back of the room. Keeping her voice even, she says, "Among the Lakota, Coyote is a trickster, famous for getting himself into difficulties. Many of those adventures are funny, with the joke on Coyote himself. But this," she says as she turns to face the audience, "this is an individual animal, not a myth or Coyote-with-a-capital-C in a traditional story. If you look more closely, you will see that he has chewed his own tail half through in a effort to escape." A flick of the switch zooms in on the wound, with teeth marks clear on the small vertebrae. "A little more closely, and you can see the infection that might well have killed him even if he had succeeded in freeing himself."

This time there is a small gasp, and more than one head turns away from the sight of the inflamed and swollen flesh, the pus seeping into the ragged fur. "If the infection had not been stopped, this is what would have happened to him."

The projector clicks softly, and the dying badger appears on the screen. "I can’t say for sure exactly how long this animal remained in the trap, but for full-blown sepsis—‘blood poisoning’—and terminal pneumonia to develop would require a matter of days."

"Excuse me, Doctor Rivers." One of the jurors, an elderly man whose grizzled beard approaches prophetic length, interrupts her. Turning to Dietrich, he says, "Now, I can understand why someone might get the impression that federal laws don’t apply any more. In fact, I can understand why someone might get the impression that there wasn’t any law at all. And I take it you admit that you knew your father was trapping?"

"Sure I did," Dietrich answers. "He’d been running lines for years. And he’s not the only one who did it, either."

The juror nods understandingly. "No, I imagine not." He pauses, looking at his hands, then raises his head to stare at Dietrich, milky blue eyes blazing. "What I can’t imagine—damn it, I refuse to imagine it—is that any half-way decent man would set traps and not check them at least once a day. God knows we may get thrown back to stone knives and bearskins, more’s the pity for the bear. But to leave an animal to suffer like that"—he shakes one gnarled finger at the screen—"is plain sadism. I refuse to accept that as necessary, sir. I refuse to."

‘Sit down, Mr. Dietrich," Harcourt says repressively, before the man is halfway to his feet . "I will not warn you again. Do you have any further remarks at this time, Mr. Leonard?"

The juror shakes his head, leaning back against his seat and staring balefully at Dietrich. We’re going to make it. There is a grim triumph in the thought, and a small ironic smile pulls at the corners of Koda’s mouth. They’re as disgusted with the old man as they are with the son. They’re going to confirm the law. Aloud, she says, "Shall I go on, Judge?"

"If you would, Doctor Rivers."

Steeling herself, Koda cues the next slide onto the screen, turning to face the panel, deliberately looking away from the image of Wa Uspewicakiyape dead in the snow. Her voice sounds hollow in her own ears as she says, "Here we see what happens when such injuries and subsequent infection run their course. This victim is an adult male Grey Wolf, Canis lupus, an endangered and federally protected species." She focuses in on the shattered leg, and a young man in the back of the room abruptly gets up and pushes his way out the door, one hand over his mouth. "The initial injury in this case is a multiple compound fracture of the right tibia and fibula; plainly put, his leg was so badly crushed, with bone protruding through the skin, that medical repair would have been impossible; even if this wolf had been found immediately, the only choices would have been euthanasia or amputation and life in captivity." She pauses for a moment, the words bitter in her mouth. "While immobilized by the trap, this wolf was attacked by, and somehow managed to fight off, a large predator, perhaps a bear, more likely a wolverine. Note the puncture wounds to the neck. Note also the abdominal wound. The edges are dry and inflamed, indicating the onset of infection. As in the case of the badger, exposure would have resulted in pneumonia. Again, we are speaking of days."

Speaking past the rage that threatens to choke her, she continues. "There was also a den within a hundred feet of this trap. Because of the death of this wolf, his mate, who had given birth out of season, was forced to leave her pups to forage. She was shot, though not fatally, at the gates of Ellsworth Air Force Base. Between the trap and the shooting, three out of four of the litter died, a net current loss of four to a still-recovering population. The loss over time, of course, is much greater.

"Finally, she says, "we have a young female bobcat, caught within less than an hour of being found by Lieutenant Rivers and Lieutenant Andrews." She keys up the slide of the cat backing away from her rescuers, ears flat against her head, nose wrinkled in a snarl. "The injury had not had time to become infected, and no bones were broken. As you may know, lack of fractures is atypical. As it was, several tendons were severed and required sutures."

"Doctor Rivers?" Another member of the jury, a woman whose long blonde hair is caught into a thick braid down her back and whose hands show the calluses of months of rough work, glances toward Harcourt for permission to speak. When he nods, she asks, "What is the prognosis of the coyote and the bobcat?"

Koda smiles, the knots in her shoulders beginning to loosen. "Very good, in both cases. In fact, both will be released within a week or two."

"And to what do you attribute their recovery?"

"I attribute their recovery to their rescue by Lieutenants Rivers and Andrews, and to prompt emergency treatment by Sergeant Tacoma Rivers. Had they not been found and treated, both would certainly have died."

"Da-yum," someone in the audience drawls. "How many vets you got on that Base? You make house calls, Doc?"

"Oh Doc, I got a pain, real bad," a young man in the back wails. "Please help!"

Relieved laughter suddenly fills the room, and the Judge raps once, sharply, with his gavel. Abrupt silence decends. Harcourt fixes the speaker with a gaze sharp and bright as a diamond behind his glasses. "Indeed you do, Marc Beauchamp. And if you don’t quiet down and maintain order in this proceeding, I’ll put you and this court both out of it." Turning to Koda, he asks, "Doctor Rivers, have you anything further to add?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Thank you. Sergeant Tacoma Rivers to the stand, please."

Tacoma stands and takes an uncertain step toward the stand, then accepts his crutches from Manny with obvious reluctance. "Good human," Koda says softly as she passes him on her way back to her own seat.

As she turns to sit, movement at the courtroom door catches her eye. The door opens to admit Kirsten, who pauses for a moment to survey the audience and the panel, her eyes finally settling on Koda with a smile. She steps to one side, and a tall man in a buckskin jacket, greying hair caught back in a ponytail, enters behind her. His eyes, shadowed under dark brows, are blue as jay’s wing. With a glance back at Tacoma, who is taking the oath propped up on one crutch, Dakota deposits the laptop in her chair and makes her way up the side aisle as fast as she can without breaking into a run. As a grin spreads across her father’s face and she returns the smile, her suddenly pounding heart slows to normal. Whatever brings Wanblee Wapka to Rapid City, it is not bad news at home.

As she approaches, he holds the door for her and Kirsten once more and lets it fall shut behind them. Without a word, he opens his arms, and she clings to him silently for a long moment, no words necessary. Then he says, "I’m sorry, chunksi. Kirsten told me what happened to Wa Uspewikakiyape."

Dakota loosens her hold just enough to take a step back and meet his eyes. "I found him still alive. I couldn’t help him." She hears the catch in her own voice, half-grief, half-anger. "I couldn’t help him."

He does not attempt to contradict her. "You are helping his mate and his cub. Not to mention his whole species. He would consider that a fair bargain, I think."

"It’s all I could do." The words are bitter on her tongue, like gall.

"It is much. No." He cuts her off as she opens her mouth to contradict him. "I know you don’t think it’s enough. But it is justice, and you have fought hard for it." He nods toward Kirsten. "So have others."

"You’ve met?" With a small shock, it occurs to Koda that her father and Kirsten did not arrive together by chance.

"I went to the Base first, looking for you and Tacoma." He smiles at Kirsten. "We got acquainted on the way into town."

"Oh." To her chagrin, Dakota feels the flush spread across her face, her skin growing warm. "That’s—nice."

His eyes are sparkling now, with the warmth of a summer sky. "Yes, it is."

Gods, is it written on my forehead? "Mother--?"

"Will adjust."

"Not without a fight."

"Probably not. Meantime—"

Manny pushes through the door, using good shoulder. Wanblee Wapka’s gaze shifts, taking in his bandaged hands, but he says only, "Tonskaya?"

"Leksi. Sorry. Koda, the jury isn’t going to go out at all. They say they don’t need to deliberate."

The jury, which has been huddled in a tight knot with Harcourt at its center, is just making its way back to the table when Koda, Kirsten, her father and cousin file back into the courtroom. Silently, they range themselves along the wall at the back, and Kirsten slips her hand lightly, unobtrusively, into Dakota’s. Koda gives her fingers a squeeze—thank you—and waits for the verdict.

"Mister Chairperson," intones the Judge. "Have you made a determination of the cause and manner of death of William E. Dietrich, deceased, of Rapid City, County of Pennington, in the State of South Dakota?"

The Chairperson rises. Louie Wang is a youngish man whose eyes are dark behind bottle-bottom glasses; even after Armageddon, his shirt pocket sports a plastic protector for a couple pens and a marker. Before meeting Kirsten, Koda would instantly have labeled him a typical computer geek. "We have, Your Honor."

"Your findings, Mr. Chairperson, on the cause of death?"

"As determined previously, cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head, Your Honor."

"Manner of death?"

"Homicide, Your Honor."

Koda’s fingers tighten convulsively around Kirsten’s. Kirsten squeezes back, hard, a puzzled look on her face counterpart to the alarm on Manny’s. Only Wanblee Wapka seems unruffled, standing relaxed with one hand holding his hat, the other a jacket pocket.

"Are there any further findings, Mr. Wang?"

"Two others, Your Honor."

"Your first supplementary finding, please."

Referring to a yellow notepad on the table, Wang says, "Our first supplementary finding, in the absence of a civilian criminal court and a properly constituted grand jury, is that while a homicide—the killing of a human being—was committed, there is no finding of murder. From evidence given, it is the verdict of this jury that Lieutenant Manuel Rivers acted in defense of his own life and the life of Lieutenant Andrews when he returned shots fired at them by William Everett Dietrich, deceased. The jury calls to the attention of the court the circumstance that the said William Everett Dietrich was in process of commission of a felony when he shot at the Lieutenants with intent to kill, and thereby attempted capital murder, an offense which carries the death penalty in this state."

Koda feels her breath go out of her in a rush, notes the relief as every muscle in Manny’s body suddenly seems to relax, held up only by the pressure of his shoulders against the wall. A glance at her father tells her that he has never doubted the verdict. It is not, she realizes, so much that he trusts the law as that he trusts her, and Tacoma, and Manny himself. Trusts them to act in honor, trusts their ability to defend those actions.

"And your second finding, Mr. Chairperson?" asks Harcourt.

"Our second supplementary finding," Wang replies, still referring to the notepad, "is as follows. In the absence of any duly constituted legislative body of the State of South Dakota, this panel affirms the present laws which protect species determined to be either threatened or endangered, and the laws which prohibit the use of the leghold trap or any other device legally defined as cruel."

"So say you one, so say you all?"

One by one the jurors confirm their votes, and the Judge adjourns the court sine die. As the audience begins to file out, all but a few who form a tight knot about Dietrich’s family, Tacoma makes his way to the back of the room. He walks unsteadily, both crutches held in one hand, their rubber feet stumping against the floor tiles like a freeform walking staff.

Wanblee Wapka looks from his eldest son to his nephew and back again. "You two are a mess," he says equably. "What does the other guy look like?"

"Little metal slivers," Tacoma answers, grinning. "Lots of ‘em."

Koda smiles at Kirsten as Wanblee Wapka embraces Tacoma. This is your family, too. But that is not something to be said with strangers crowding past them, and so she only holds the tighter to Kirsten’s hand, not caring who may notice.

Fifteen minutes later, they pile into Wanblee Wapka’s big double-cab pickup, Koda’s own truck entrusted to one of the enlisted men. When they are settled, Manny looks back through the slide window into the camper-topped truckbed and frowns. "What are all those boxes back there? You moving in with us, Leksi?"

"Afraid not," Wanblee Wapka says, maneuvering the heavy truck expertly out of the narrow space and out onto the street. "Those are just a few things your aunt sent: some home-canned peaches, corn, beans, frybread, and such."

"There’s a couple chickens and some roasts at the house, too," Kirsten adds. "And a side of beef at the mess--everyone’s going to have a full stomach tonight."

"Thanks, Até," Koda says quietly, and receives a smile in return.