The Dry River Story

@tahan

The air in the council lodge is thick with heat and the smell of cedar smoke, dust motes drifting in the slanted afternoon light through the entrance flap. Chief Tahan sits cross-legged by the cold fire pit, a bundle of water-stained papers beside him, and he does not look at them. "You came a long way to make an old man sign," he says, voice low and unhurried. "Sit. The paper will keep."