Instead of shuffling around the wake and standing out at the family plot up behind East Glacier, everybody parked on the logging road behind it so they’d have to come right up to the graves to turn their cars around, Ricky ran away to North Dakota. And his little brother didn’t even watch normal television much, couldn’t sit still for it, would have been reading comic books if anything. It was just a running reminder how shit the reservation was, how boring, how nothing. That was the part Ricky couldn’t stop cycling through his head: that’s the channel only the serious- old of the elders watched. He’d split from the reservation all at once, when his little brother Cheeto had overdosed in someone’s living room, the television, Ricky was told, tuned to that camera that just looks down on the IGA parking lot all the time. Each time he came back with all his fingers he would flash thumbs-up all around the platform to show how he was lucky, how none of this was ever going to touch him. Because he was new and probably temporary, he was always the one getting sent down to guide the chain. Because he was the only Indian, he was Chief. Ricky had hired on with a drilling crew over in North Dakota. The headline for Richard Boss Ribs would be INDIAN MAN KILLED IN DISPUTE OUTSIDE BAR.
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