4

A tattered and worn notebook. The words “If founds, please return to Riyad Malik,” and a phone number are written. 3/4s of the pages have already been filled with tightly packed words.

Didn’t expect a rich man’s mistress would be living in a poor part of town like this. Maybe that expectation helps cover up the affair.

The directions take me to an apartment complex surrounded by abandoned lots. Didn’t think you could find this much empty space in New York outside of Central Park. Graffiti’s been written on the door,

His ankles rest on the earth, and his head reaches to the very sky.

WE WILL NOT BE CAGED

“We will not be caged.” Isn’t that what the Wakį́yą people say at their protests?

Been five minutes since I knocked at the apartment door. Might have to try back later wait door’s opening.

The woman who answered the door let me in when I said I was looking for Yamka, but she didn’t say if she was Yamka. Indian woman. American Indian. Barely even looked at me before inviting me inside. She’s in the kitchen, getting water. Gives me a chance to look around. There’s a lot of odd smelling smoke in the air. Not tobacco. Not incense, either. Marijuana? No, not quite the right smell for that.

Barely any furniture in here. I can’t imagine someone living in this place. Wait she’s coming back.

“I’m looking for a woman named Yamka?”

“That is me.”

“Good, I’m glad to have found you. I’m a journalist investigating the disappearance of Raymond Celine. I head you knew him…?”

“I was his lover.”

Wasn’t expecting that much bluntness. “You are aware that he went missing three days ago?”

“Yes.” She seems unemotional about this. Not sure if shock or stoicism.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you feel about his vanishing?”

“I do not worry. The storm took him, and the storm will bring him back to me.” Probably shock, then.

Need to try a different topic. “How did you first meet Raymond?”

“I sought him out.”

Not exactly what I expected. “What made you decide to pursue him?”

“I once lived on a reservation in Arizona. Men from his company wished to remove us from our land. I went to him to persuade him to reconsider.” She told that brief story without any inflection. Her face barely even moved.

The doorbell just rang. Yamka’s gone to answer it. Two men. She’s talking to them, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Need to think of some way to get more out of her. She responds like a robot. Not a good interview.

Sounds like her conversation’s over.

I’m riding the bus home now. After talking to the men at the door, Yamka told me we would need to finish the interview tomorrow. Probably for a best. Gives me time to figure out how to turn her mechanical replies into a story.