My wife is dying, her body covered with the small sores that have already killed our children. I tend her. Though it is warm in the tipi she shivers and I pile on more of the blankets we bought from the white men, so much lighter than the buffalo skins we used to use, and easier to come by now that the buffalo are so scarce. I would pray to the spirits for aid, but the medicine man was one of the first to die, so I try praying to the white man’s god, instead, and I tend her. Perhaps I do not remember the words right, or perhaps, despite what the missionaries told us, he really is a god only for white men. I tend her until I am too sick, and then I lie down next to her. By the time I die, her body has already begun to stink.