“To spend with him,” Shaney says back, going to Harley now that the door’s open. She cups his wide head in her hand, draws her nose to his, and squeezes her eyes shut, keeps them like that. “You smell it, don’t you?” Lewis says. “He’s dying,” she says, massaging his notched ears. She rolls into a sitting position on the unassembled sweat, says about Harley and all his scars, “He’s an old warrior, isn’t he?” “You come just to see him?” Lewis asks, trying not to make it sound confrontational. She hears it anyway. “Your wife wouldn’t want me here, right? White girls of red men are always the most
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