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be said about that issue of the magazine. So now I started talking about the weather, about the summer cross-country meets that were coming up, about stopping off at the next New York System weiner stand because I was feeling starved. But when we did come to that hot dog stand, I couldn’t stop. I was trying to keep my voice calm and light, but I could feel it getting higherin pitch and almost hysterical.
    I think people were turning to look at me as we went down Benefit Street. I’m usually quiet on that street. I really appreciate all those old restored buildings and like to look around at them. If you’re a nut for brick sidewalks and cobblestone alleys, mansard roofs, gables, and wrought-iron railings, Benefit Street is like heaven for you. But I might as well have been walking through the mall for all the attention I paid to the architecture this time. I didn’t even point out the Governor Hopkins House where George Washington slept. Twice.
    Finally we reached Market House down by the river, which is always busy. It was the first marketplace of Old Providence. Before that it was the crossroads where the trails met that led from the Pequots in Connecticut and the Wampanoags in Massachusetts. Even before the coming of foreign sailors from across the sea, this had been a meeting place of different nations, each with their own ways and their own histories to tell.
    Here, close to the water of the Providence River, with lots of people around, with all that remembered history surrounding me, I felt better. That is kind ofa strange thing to say, I suppose, considering how much of that history is painful to remember if you are an Indian. After all, the coming of the Europeans brought warfare and diseases and laws that took away first our land and then even our tribal status, like in 1880 when the Rhode Island legislature declared our whole tribe extinct. Thinking about it, feeling the melancholy pain of being Indian that Dad and I used to talk about, made me calmer, because it was so familiar. Because I’d felt that way a thousand times before while standing here looking out at our river that leads down into Narragansett Bay.
    “Roger,” I said.
    “Uh-huh,” he answered.
    But before I could say anything, my cell phone rang. It was so unexpected, so much a part of the modern world and not where my gloomy thoughts of doom had been taking me, that it made me laugh.
    “It’s for you,” Roger said. It was a dumb thing to say, but the way he said it was so funny that it made me laugh even harder. Somehow I managed to get the phone out. But before answering it, I looked at the Caller ID and then sighed with relief. I knew that number.
    “Aunt Lyssa,” I said into the phone.
    “Honey.” Just that single word in my aunt’s gentle voice made me feel better. “Maddy, honey, I got your message about Bootsie. Is she all right?”
    “Bootsie’s going to be okay. Doc Fox is keeping her overnight,” I said. “Roger’s here with me.”
    “That’s good,” Aunt Lyssa said. “You want to bring him home? I’m picking up chicken for dinner.”
    I sighed with relief. This was all so normal. I looked over at Roger, who had been leaning close enough to hear my aunt’s side of our conversation. He nodded his head.
    “Okay,” I said.
    “We’ll talk when I get home,” Aunt Lyssa said in her positive way. “Everything is going to be all right.”
    I felt that way when I put my phone away. Everything was fine. There was nothing to worry about. But as Roger and I walked back up Benefit Street, that good feeling seeped away. And Aunt Lyssa’s reassuring voice was replaced by another one, a voice that whispered fear.

10
WHO IS THAT?
    I FLUFFED UP MY pillow for the twentieth time. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. We’d eaten dinner with Aunt Lyssa, and then Roger and I had played my new video game which is loosely based on a movie that is loosely based on a character out of Bram Stoker’s Dracula . We’d gotten