When he looks up, Sonia is watching him to see what he'll do. "Do you need some time alone?" she asks.

He answers by folding the pages of the letter and slipping them back into his pocket. "They're only words," he says, and Sonia doesn't argue.

"If you get there and change your mind at the last minute, you can always mail that letter instead." Then she looks over at the trunk. "In the meantime, I think I'll get all these other letters stamped and in the mail. I've never felt the time was right to send them. But if the Akron AWOL is going home, maybe it's time for all of these kids to be heard too."

"Have Grace help you," Connor suggests. "She needs it. I'll try to be back as soon as I can. Even if it looks like they're willing to help, I won't bring them back here . . ." Then he swallows hard, forcing himself to admit the real possibility. ". . . just in case they're lying."

"Fair enough." Then Sonia takes a few steps closer to Connor, considering him like she might appraise an antique. "I hope this brings you some peace. We all need a moratorium on misery now and then."

"Moratorium. Right," says Connor.

Sonia regards him with the sort of mock contempt usually displayed by people his own age. "It means a temporary break."

"I knew that," says Connor, which he didn't.

Sonia shakes her head dismissively and sighs. "It's Sunday morning-do your parents go to church?" Until then Connor had no idea the day of the week.

"Only on holidays and when someone dies."

"Well," says Sonia, "let's hope nobody dies today."

23 * Lev

Hennessey is dead, and Fretwell will face justice. The unwinding of Wil Tashi'ne will be avenged. Lev couldn't ask for more.

Una calls ahead so the Rez is expecting them-and intends to play it for all it's worth. The Royal Gorge Bridge is closed to traffic for the transfer. A phalanx of guards is there as Morton Fretwell, the Arpache's public enemy number one, is taken from the trunk of Una and Lev's car and into police custody. They remove the gag and plastic ties restraining him, and place his hands and feet in steel restraints that seem like overkill for his ugly, emaciated frame.

Then he is walked across the bridge, in perhaps the greatest perp walk of all time. The Arpache are nothing if not dramatic.

"You and Una will lead the procession," Chal Tashi'ne told them over the phone. "It will be a public event, and the first thing the public will see coming over the bridge will be you."

Chal is not there when they arrive. Lev is not surprised. As an accomplished attorney for the tribe, Chal might put on a professional faade, but as Wil's father he couldn't bring himself to face the last living parts pirate responsible for his son's unwinding. At least not yet.

At the far end of the bridge is a large turnout of the Arpache people. Five hundred at least.

"Don't wave or smile or anything," Una tells Lev as they cross the bridge toward the crowd. "Show no emotion. This is a somber event."

"Don't you think I know that?" Lev responds. "I'm not an idiot."

"But you've never faced the Arpache as a hero. There are expectations. A demeanor that goes back a thousand years."

When they reach the end of the bridge, the cheers begin. Una was right to tell Lev how to comport himself, because he does have an urge to bask in glory. Then as they get closer, the cheers drop off and are replaced by boos and jeers. It takes a moment for Lev to realize that this communal vitriol is for Fretwell, who hobbles behind them, with multiple sets of guards on either side.

The crowd shouts epithets in both Arpache and in English, to make sure he understands the nature and level of their hatred. The crowd makes as if to push through the wall of guards holding them back, but Lev suspects it's also just for show. Yes, they want to tear him apart, but they won't. They want him to suffer, and suffering requires many more opportunities for public humiliation.

"You people suck," Fretwell shouts, which thrills the crowd because it allows them to hate him even more.

The chief of police comes over to check out Fretwell. Lev finds himself disappointed that the tribal chief isn't here, but perhaps he had his expectations too high. As the police chief assesses Fretwell, the parts pirate makes that familiar guttural sound, dredging phlegm from the back of his throat.

"Spit at him and you die right here, right now," says one of the guards holding him. Fretwell's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows the substantial loogie.

The police chief turns to Lev and Una, shaking both of their hands. "Well done," he says. Then Fretwell is put into a squad car, driven off, and the party ends. Lev can't hide his disappointment.

"What did you expect?" Una asks him. "A medal of honor? The key to the Rez?"

"I don't know," Lev tells her. "But something more than a handshake."

"Handshakes from the right people mean a lot around here."

And there are plenty of handshakes.

First from members of the crowd before they disperse. People of all ages come forward to shake Lev's hand, and offer words of thanks and congratulations-and Lev begins to realize this is what he needs more than official recognition. What he needs is grassroots acceptance from the Arpache people, one person, one handshake at a time. Only with that sort of support-support on a personal, visceral level-will he find himself the clout to be taken seriously by the Tribal Council.

In the days following Fretwell's arrest, Lev makes every effort to be as visible as possible in town.

At diners and restaurants, he is given his food for free. He accepts the generosity but leaves an even more generous tip. He is stopped on the street by families who want to take pictures with him. Children want the occasional autograph. He is gracious and accommodating to everyone who approaches him. He handles his own emotion with reserve, just as Una told him. The deportment of a warrior hero, sublimated to modern times.

"I don't understand you," says Elina Tashi'ne-Wil's mother, and a woman whom Lev has come to love like a mother too. "You came here to escape attention, and now you bathe in it like a pig in mud. Perhaps your spirit animal should be the hog instead of that monkey creature."

"A pig rolls in the mud for a reason," he points out. "I have a reason too." She knows that reason, but Lev knows she's also worried for him. "You are one boy. You can't expect yourself to move heaven and earth."

Maybe not. But he still dreams he can bring down the moon.

Morton Fretwell is convicted in a trial that lasts only one day, peopled by a jury that is hard-pressed to conceal its rancor. He is found guilty of kidnapping, conspiring to commit murder, and as an accessory to murder-for by Arpache law, unwinding and murder are one and the same. Then, in a move that is no surprise to anyone, rather than pronouncing a life sentence, the judge falls back on an old tradition.

"Let the aggrieved levy punishment on the convicted," the judge announces, which opens the door to whatever the Tashi'ne family wants to do to him, including putting his life to a most painful end.

"This is justice?" Fretwell cries as he's led back to the jailhouse after the verdict. "This is justice?" There are no ears sympathetic to his pleas.

The following day, Elina, Chal, and Pivane Tashi'ne come to face Fretwell, along with Una and Lev. While they were there in the courthouse, never once did Lev see them make eye contact, or even look directly at Fretwell. Perhaps because they were so sickened by him, or perhaps because it would make this moment today all the more meaningful.

Fretwell looks pathetic in his cell. Dirty, even in the clean beige jumpsuit of Arpache convicts.

While Pivane, Chal, and even Una stand back, Elina comes forward to look at him. Her face is a study of the true Arpache heroine. Lev is in awe of her presence as she regards Fretwell. It's enough to make the man stand in quivering respect.

"Are you being treated well?" Elina asks, always the doctor.

Fretwell nods.

She regards him for a good long time before she speaks again. "We have discussed the various options of your punishment for the kidnapping and murdering of our son."

"He ain't dead!" Fretwell insists. "All his parts is still alive-I can prove it."

Elina ignores him. "We have discussed it and have decided that your death at our hands would be meaningless."

Fretwell breathes a sigh of relief.

"Therefore," she continues, "you will be remanded to the Central Tribal Penitentiary. You will, for the rest of your life, be given nothing but bread and water. The minimum required for survival. You will be allowed nothing to entertain yourself. No contact with other human beings-so that you will be left with nothing but your thoughts until the end of your days."

Fretwell's eyes swell with horror. "Nothing? But you have to give me something. A Bible at least. Or a TV."

"You will have one thing," Elina says, then Chal reaches behind him and pulls out the object he has been concealing.

It's a rope.

He hands it to the guard in attendance, who then passes it through the bars of the cell to Fretwell.

"We offer you this mercy," Elina tells him, "that when your existence becomes too awful to bear, with this rope, you may end it."

Fretwell grips the rope tightly in his hands and, looking down on it, bursts into tears. Satisfied, Lev, Una, and the Tashi'nes leave the room.

The following morning Fretwell is found dead, having hung himself from the ceiling light fixture in his cell. His question is finally answered. This is justice.

Lev has no idea if anyone in the outside world will mourn the man. He finds his own heart hardened. Fretwell's capture, conviction, and sorry demise mean only one thing to Lev. An opportunity.

That very afternoon, Lev petitions the Tribal Council for an audience. He receives his summons a week later. Elina is surprised that they responded to him at all, but Chal is not.

"Legally, they have to respond to every petitioner," Chal points out.

"Yes, and they don't get to some petitioners for years," says Elina.

"Perhaps Lev's a little too large a public figure to keep on their plate."

The idea of Lev being a large public figure in spite of his size both tickles Lev and makes him uncomfortable.

Elina and Chal accompany him, although Lev would have preferred to go alone.

"No one should face the council without a lawyer and a doctor," Chal says as they make the drive to Council Square. Then he gives Lev a mischievous smile. "Besides, irritating the Tribal Council is part of my basic job description."

"Yes," says Elina, feigning irritation, "and it's kept you from being the tribe's attorney general."

"Thank God!" says Chal. "I'd rather be representing the tribe's interests out there in the world than be stuck handling the tribe's piddling internal affairs."

Lev shifts the heavy backpack he holds on his lap. The Tashi'nes haven't asked what's inside. He'd tell them if they asked, but he knows they won't, if he hasn't offered to share it. They do know the nature of his petition, however.

"You don't need to do this," Elina tells him. "As long as you don't bring trouble on us, you can stay."

And that's the problem. Because trouble is exactly what Lev means to bring to the Arpache. Their minds and souls need to be as troubled as his.

The Arpache council chamber consists of chairs around a huge donut-shaped table made of fine reservation-grown oak. On the outside rim of the table sit the chief, several representatives from key clans of the tribe, and the elected tribal officials. Twice a week they meet for public forum to hear the suggestions, complaints, and petitions of the people.

The circular setting was designed to reflect tradition, but somewhere along the way it was decided that petitioners stand in the table's ten-foot donut hole, thus making it an intimidating process, because with eyes on you from every direction, one begins to feel like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.

According to Chal and Elina, the Tribal Council was unofficially aware of Lev's presence on the reservation long before he left to apprehend Wil's kidnappers, and they had unofficially chosen to look the other way. At the Tribal Council table, however, there will be no "other way" to look. Today Lev puts himself beneath the heat of the magnifying glass.

"I can't say this is wise," Elina tells him as they enter Tribal Hall, "but we'll stand with you because what you're doing is noble."

They can't stand with him, however. Each petitioner must make his or her case alone. When it's his turn, Lev leaves Elina and Chal to watch from the gallery above, striding alone through a small gap in the O-shaped table, and into the center of scrutiny.

As he steps into the circle, the elder members of the council posture and grunt in disapproval. Others are merely curious, and a few smirk at the prospect of being amused by the sparks that will surely fly. Clearly they all recognize him and know who he is. His reputation sails before him like his spirit animal through the forest canopy.

The Arpache chief, while just a symbolic position these days, is the voice of the council, and Dji Quanah, the reigning chief, has mastered the wielding of imaginary power. He has also embraced his traditional role. His clothes are carefully chosen to be reminiscent of old-school tribal garb. His hair is split into two long gray braids that fall on either side of his face, framing a square jaw. If modern Arpache culture is a marriage of the old and the new, Chief Quanah is the ancestral bridegroom.

Chal warned Lev that in spite of the circle, he should always address the chief. "He may not have the true power of the elected officials, but things never go smoothly if you don't pay the respect that's due him."

Lev holds eye contact with the chief for a solid five seconds, waiting for the chief to begin the proceedings.

"First, let me congratulate you on your role in bringing the parts pirate to justice," Chief Quanah says. And with that formality out of the way, he says, "Now state your purpose here," already sounding put off.

"If it pleases the council, I have a petition." Lev hands a single page to the chief, then gives copies to the others assembled. He's a little clumsy and awkward about it, finding it hard to overcome the intimidating petition process. There are eighteen seats in total around the table, although only a dozen people are present today.

The chief puts on a pair of reading glasses and looks over the petition. "Who is this 'Mahpee Kinkajou'?" he asks. It's rhetorical-he knows, but wants Lev to say it.

"It's the name I've been given as an Arpache foster-fugitive. The kinkajou is my spirit animal."

The chief puts down the petition, having only skimmed it. "Never heard of it."

"Neither did I, until it found me."

"Your name is Levi," the chief states. "That is the name by which you will be addressed."

Lev doesn't argue, even though no one ever called him Levi but his parents. And now his parents don't call him anything. He clears his throat. "My petition is-"

But the chief doesn't let him finish. "Your petition is foolishness, and a waste of our time. We have important business here."

"Like what?" Lev says before he can filter himself. "A petition to name fire hydrants, and a noise complaint about a karaoke bar? I saw the list of today's 'important business.'"

That brings forth a half-stifled guffaw from one of the elected council members. The chief throws the councilman a glare, but seems a bit embarrassed himself by some of today's other petitions.

Lev takes the moment to forge forward, hoping he can get it out with only a minimum of verbal bumbling. He's certainly practiced it enough. "The Arpache nation is a powerful force, not just among Chancefolk, but in the larger world too. Your policy has been to look the other way when people take on a foster-fugitive AWOL. But looking the other way isn't good enough anymore. This petition urges the tribe to openly and officially accept kids trying to escape being unwound."

"Toward what end?" asks a woman to his right. He turns to see a council member about Elina's age but with more worry lines in her forehead. "If we open our gates to AWOLs officially, we'll be inundated. It will be a nightmare!"

"No," says Lev, happy for the unintentional setup. "This is the nightmare." Then he reaches into his backpack and pulls out sets of bound printouts. Reams and reams of paper as heavy as phone books. He quickly hands them out to Chief Quanah and the council members all around him. "The names of the unwound are public record, so I was able to access them. In these pages are the names of everyone subjected to 'summary division' since the Unwind Accord was signed. You can't look at all of those names and not feel something."

"We never signed the Unwind Accord, and never will," says one of the elders. "Our consciences are clear-which is more than I can say for you." He points a crooked finger. "We took you in two years ago, and then what did you do? You became a clapper!"