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“What’s a Chicago?” Ben asks, sounding confused. “Or for that matter, a Santa Monica?” “They were major cities before the Big Water,” Clive says. “We learned about them in school and on TV shows. They’re long gone now. But part of the road is still there. She’s right about that. I think it’s a refugee road now. It starts somewhere around the Burque and ends at Flagstaff, or wherever the ocean starts these days.”
That we Diné are part of this land as much as any mountain or valley or stream. We are it, and it is in us, and out here, in this wasteland, none of that feels true. Mósí said being Diné is a constant, something that cannot change. That one cannot stop being Diné, even in a place where Dinétah cannot be reached.
“I was thinking,” he says. “If we’re going to have a chance of getting to your friend, we might need to be more subtle than”—he swings an arm, taking in the weapons cage—“all this.” “I’m not putting my guns back,” I say. “Not you. No one would believe you as a fine lady. But Ms. Goodacre . . .” He turns and gives Rissa a little bow. I feel like I should be offended, but I’m so far from offended. Being a fine lady sounds like a fucking nightmare.

