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Th
    e moonlight was
    shining on the yellow-leaved birch trees outside, making them twinkle and dance in the wind. For a fraction of a second, it got so quiet, Chickie swore she could even hear the sound those leaves were making.
    Sonny felt a sudden chill in the air and looked around. Most of the other kids were still busy shoveling their mouths full of food, hungry after a long day of missing home. Th ose two
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    M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
    Eskimo brothers were talking together in their own language.
    Sonny watched them closely, trying to fi gure out what they were talking about.
    “Horse meat!” the bigger one muttered, unaccountably.
    Horse meat. An English word nobody ever used, laced into an Iñupiaq sentence. Weird.
    Before Sonny even had a chance to fi gure it out, the whole room went dead quiet, and everyone looked up, as if by instinct. Th
    at old priest was striding toward the Eskimo table, black as a storm cloud, shaking the whole place into an electric silence. He stopped right next to those two brothers and towered over them, tapping his hand with a ruler.
    Some of the other kids might have wondered why he
    needed a ruler at dinnertime, but Sonny already knew, and so did Amiq. Th
    e two of them eyed each other without meaning
    to.
    Checkmate, Sonny thought, watching Father and ducking his head. Even without looking he could feel Father, standing there like a big black bishop in a game of his own—a bigger, meaner game.
    And then the only sound in the whole room was the sound that ruler made, smacking that kid’s hand. Hard.
    Sonny still didn’t look. No one looked. Th
    ey all sat there
    leaning into each other, one body of kids with a whole lot of dark, averted eyes.
    Th
    at Amiq should have warned his kids about Father, Sonny thought, glancing sideways at Amiq. He should have told them.
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    How Hunters Survive
    SEPTEMBER 7, 1960
    LUKE
    —
    It’s still dark outside, like this is the kind of place that’s always gonna be dark. And I can’t sleep.
    All I can hear is the sound of other boys breathing. I think maybe I hear the whole place breathing—every last one of them. Nuns and priests, girls and Indians, all of them fast asleep. Bunna looks tense, even in his sleep, clutching Isaac’s toy gun. He didn’t think I noticed that he had it, but I did.
    Some of the younger kids are making little hiccupping noises, hunched into their blankets, trying not to let anyone hear them crying.
    I wonder if Isaac’s asleep now, too, wherever they took him. I try real hard to imagine him sleeping—snoring soft with that twitchy little sleep smile he gets. But no matter how hard I try, all I can see is his tear-streaked face, pressed up against the black window of that car, disappearing into tree-shaped shadows.
    I stare up at the ceiling, wishing a person could go from 37
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    M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
    one place to another, just like that. I’d make myself go from this lonely bed at Sacred Heart School to my own bed back home, curled up with my brothers—both of them.
    I have never in my whole life been spanked, and I’m wondering what’s so bad about Iñupiaq that they have to make your hand sting for speaking it. I can still feel those Iñupiaq words, warming the back of my throat, only now it feels like the sounds got twisted around somehow . Like if I try to say a word, it’s gonna come out bent.
    But I know for sure what I gotta do now. I lean over the side of the bunk and shake Bunna hard.
    “Bunna. Wake up. It’s time,” I say real soft.
    “Time for what?” he asks, his voice loud and groggy.
    “Shhh. Time to go home.”
    “Where’s our stuff ?” He’s wide awake now, whispering.
    “We don’t need stuff .”
    “I’m taking Isaac’s gun,” he says, his voice rising a bit.
    Isaac’s