Neither Wolf Nor Dog. Kent Nerburn

more of the reservation without feeling like a white intruder.

      We bounced our way back down the hill, then turned onto a gravel road that skirted a dusty, amber wash. Houses were set back from the road about a half a mile apart. They all had the look of prefab postwar bungalows gone to seed. Doors hung by one hinge. Windows without screens were covered by blankets. The front yards were nothing more than spotty patches of dirt with kids’ bicycles and old appliances lying randomly on the ground.