Talker 25 Read Free

onto the thoroughfare that connects Mason-Kline to the rez. Reservation Road, wide as a runway and unmarked by signposts or mile markers, is empty except for us. I keep my gaze fixed on the spears of golden corn blurring by the window.
    “What’s going on, Mel? Why did you want to come to the sanctuary?”
    I shrug.
    “Something to do with your date last night?”
    “It wasn’t a date. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
    “Hopefully not all bad?”
    “No.” I know he won’t drop it. Maybe I can divert his attention by asking one of the questions bothering me—a question that won’t get me in trouble. “Dad, how do you tell the difference between male and female dragons?”
    “Once we’re back home, I’ll forward you some public literature.”
    “There’s classified stuff on this?” Dumb question. If the army researched the mating habits of sheep, it would deem half the material top secret. “I’m sure it’s thoroughly boring. Could you just highlight it for me?”
    “Since we’ve never seen them mate or reproduce, we have to dissect them.”
    “Can’t you . . . um . . . just look at their business?”
    He laughs. “They have no external business.”
    “Aren’t there easier ways? X-rays or something?”
    “Nothing like that works. We don’t know half as much as we think we do about them. What’s going on, Mel?”
    “Nothing.” I glance at the blinking red light on the haft of his Taser. “You need to charge your Taser. You promised.”
    “You know these Blues aren’t dangerous.”
    “How do you know that? You can’t even tell the difference between boys and girls until you do an autopsy.”
    “I just know.”
    “Kind of like how Mom knew?”
    “That’s enough. You know that’s different.”
    “It’s not any different. Mom trusted dragons and they killed her.”
    “It wasn’t their fault,” he says softly.
    “No, Dad, it’s never their fault. They’re just animals that got out of control, right? It’s Mom’s fault she’s dead, isn’t it?”
    Dad grabs my thigh and squeezes hard before letting go. “That’s enough, Melissa.”
    “You’re angrier at me than you ever were at them.” I blink back tears and swallow a bitter laugh.
    Five minutes later, Dad parks in the small lot adjacent to the rez’s guard post. He doesn’t say anything until he’s halfway out of the car. “You coming?”
    I don’t answer.
    He mutters something and slams the door shut.
    Only after the crunch of boots on gravel fades to nothing do I open my eyes. Dad’s at the guardhouse, talking with a soldier wielding a machine gun. Moments later, the tank-wide gate swings open. Dad glances in my direction, shakes his head, and strides into the rez.
    The lot’s a quarter mile from the entrance to Dragon Hill; Old Man Blue is little more than a glowing sapphireat this distance. A couple of dragons have lumbered from their hole for a midday snack, which consists of wild grass and charred cow. One of them stands near the fence, lazily chomping a rib bone.
    I watch the Blues graze for several minutes. Not once do they look my direction. Not once does a strange voice pop into my head.
    After sufficient flirting, the guard opens the gate. The Blues pay me no heed as I pass, their attention drawn to the column of smoke rising from the nearby fire pit. The cows on the opposite side of the pit, separated from the rest of the rez by a twenty-foot-high electric fence, take turns mooing as one of their brothers is roasted whole in a giant hearth.
    A man stripped to the waist and covered in soot takes a break from working the spit to wave. I wave back, blanch against the stench of burning flesh, and quicken my pace.
    I’m almost to Dragon Hill when I see Dad. He notices me, goes from angry to all-out pissed. He thrusts his fist in the air and stomps over.
    “What were you thinking?”
    Before I can answer, he opens his fist and drops a decapitated toy soldier to the ground. He grabs my arm and drags