The white Chevrolet pick-up trundled along the route from Andover High School to 55 Forest Way. The journey was twenty minutes long; five of Andover's gray cement and black tarmac and an abrupt fifteen of a thin road struggling through wild shrubbery that exploded into a forest. Meda loved every bit of it; the nip of cold, fresh air, the onslaught of greenery like overreaching trees trying to snag her up into their arboreal bosoms. It was the perfect catharsis after spending nearly four hours in a squat building teeming with post-pubescents, slowly asphyxiating in the scratchy synthetics of her graduation gown. Thankfully, the wretched thing now sat bundled up in a bag, away from her skin and about to be thrown in the attic, never to see the light of day again.

This was it – high school, done and over with. Finally, she was free from the oppressive sense of being an outsider amidst an age-group that experienced alienation in general – so her AP Psychology classes had told her. No more hearing whispered discourses about her heritage, or her tattoos, nor the wonderment soured with jealousy about her acing anything she tried her hand at, or even the rumors about how and why she'd maimed Jason, her date to Senior Prom.

Happier still was she about the pride and joy on her family's faces when she'd gone onstage to deliver her Valedictorian's Speech and receive her diploma. She turned away from the window to look at her family. Her elder sister, Winona, met her gaze and beamed.

Until informed otherwise, people thought the two were twins. Much of that was explained by the aquiline noses, high cheekbones, and the prominent cupid's bow that crowned their thicker upper lips, gifted to them by their father. They had also inherited – and this from a long line of Mahicans – their strong jawlines, their skins smithed from copper, and tresses that seemed to be woven from midnight skies. However, they were a good four years apart.

After the truck was parked in its shed at 55 Forest Way, the three piled out. Donovan opened the door to their cabin, letting out a couple of greyhounds that bounded to the girls. "Keesog!" Winona shrieked as the pale fawn-colored one leaped right into her arms, as was his habit. The other black dog, after having had collected his share of belly-rubs from Meda, went to flop at Winona's feet and demand more. Winona handed Keesog to Meda, scratched Nzukii's underside, then picked him up to carry him into the house.

At dinner, a toast of rice beer was raised to Meda and her achievements. "Most people aim for the stars in hopes of reaching the treetops," said Donovan, "but you flew into the skies and became a star yourself. Just like your mother believed you would."

"Hear, hear," cheered Winona, raising her pint glass. The ebullience on her features was as beautiful as the winter sun and warmed Meda just the same.

As the dinner progressed, it struck Meda that this was the happiest that she'd seen Donovan since Mab disappeared. She was just four at the time, so her memories of their mother were limited to the fading scent of red currants, the dim sounds of musical laughter, the safety of warm embraces – like a distant dream. But she also had memories of her Donovan's grief. How could she not? It was as timeless as her father was aging, lingering at his crow's feet, hiding behind somber smiles and wearily whispered promises.

I'm fine, Meda. Don't you worry about me.

Just tired. Had a long day at work.

Of course, long days were spent at the lumber mill that employed him, but longer evenings still were spent in the rocking chair on the porch, gaze fixed on the woods. Watching, waiting. Wishing.

Where his words held lies, his dark eyes held a sorrow that bore down on her for fourteen long years. Right now, however, the sadness was replaced by sparkling exultation and she was glad for it.

That night, Meda went to bed a little lighter. That night, the only weight she bore was of Nzukii who lay across her legs, snoring.

Over the next few weeks, the Silverheels were able to take joy in each other's companies and reinstate a number of practices that had been neglected because life kept getting in the way.

Mornings started with hair for all the Silverheels. Since Donovan kept his hair three bits shorter, each bit mourning the loss of his father, his mother, and his love, he braided his own hair to make sure his losses didn't touch his daughters. Whereas Meda and Winona took turns with each other. Meda loved carding the comb through her sister's tresses, separating them into three lengths. One for Winona's spirit, one for the spirit of the Earth, and one for Waunthut Mennitow, intertwined together so that she had their aid in everything she did throughout the day. In return, Meda asked Winona to keep her curls unbound, disentangle them from their chaos and lay them down along her back – after many years of performing dutifully in school, she sought rest for her mind and spiritual release for her soul.

At the end of it all, Meda gathered the strands that had fallen free of their scalps, and burned them with sweetgrass in a hole in the ground, dousing the wispy remnants with a sprinkle of cool water. This was to liberate all their severed ties, lost dreams, and the spirits of every being that died to sustain them, so that they may find the path forged in fire, firma, and flood, to witness dawn in the next world.

Four days a week, the girls went foraging in the woods – they collected wild herbs, flowers, roots and shoots that were then laid out to dry and preserve for teas. The other three days, they helped Donovan restore the weathered parts of their wood cabin, from the plumbing to the roofing. Each renovation and upwork done gently, mindful to care for the house like it cared for them, keeping their home snugly cradled in wood and stone.

Some evenings, they went into town to Rorio's home dojo for training, and other evenings they worked on their crafts – woodworking, painting, casting form and life into clays, under the stoic supervision of the great forests and the detached viewership of elderly mountains. They worked and worked and worked, hands dancing over materials and tools, mouths singing about the People of the Waters that are Never Still. They worked until the sun died, his ichor spilling red over the horizon and seeping into night's dark velvets.

Once, when she had only passed a decade in life, Meda had witnessed a brother from another tribe offer his mourning elegy to the sunset. She'd asked Donovan why they didn't pray for the sun's spirit. He had smiled and answered: "prayers are for those who pass on. The Great Spirit has promised us that the sun will always be reborn."

The morning after, Meda was woken by her father and taken to the top of a hill where Winona already waited. Together, the three witnessed the rebirth – a reincarnation that set fire to the skies. Gold and glorious.

Currently, at the end of each day, Meda worked late into the night assembling her portfolio to appease the universities. She lovingly collated little pieces of her heart and soul into one magnificent magnum opus. Utterly spent and made of fatigued bones every night, sunrises didn't hold any awe for her anymore.