“God, I hate hippies,” Brian said. “I know you do.” Kinnick patted his friend’s arm. Growing up on the reservation, Brian had put up with all manner of pale, communal, new age, moccasin-wearing Geronimo-come-lately weirdos moving into the woods, asking for strong medicine and advice on building sweat lodges and digging camas roots, seeking corny tribal brotherhood from people who actually belonged to tribes. But worse than that, Kinnick knew, Brian’s second wife had been a hippie who had left him for her Vinyasa yoga instructor.
