It was hard to listen to the elders, especially after watching the Dream Maker fulfill everyone's dreams. Wasn't my dreams worthy?
"Atsa, you never touch the Dream Maker," Sicheii warned me.
"Why?"
"It is not a dream maker, but a dream breaker." He swirled his arms around his body, then slammed his hand into his palm. "Boom!" Shicheii carried himself as a chief in the casino. "Go to the kitchen and get your dinner. They are serving trout tonight."
The bright blue, purple, and gold lights danced on the slot machine Dream Maker. Navajo flute music whistled through thin speakers. Shicheii was wrong. The Dream Maker always paid out.
Always!
You couldn't just slip a quarter or bill into the grandiose slot. You had to meet the teller for the coveted coin.
"How do I play the Dream Maker," many hopefuls asked.
Patty would take a long draw on her cigarette and blow it at the Plexiglass window that separated her from the gamblers. Most people flinched, even though her toxic air couldn't reach them. She was no stone fox.
"I ain't reckon you want to play that one." -again, another cloud of smoke blocked by see-through plastic. Shicheii said the barrier kept Patty safe from the patrons, but I believe it kept the patrons safe from Patty. With her onery demeanor, I wondered why she worked there. She would do well in a job where she didn't have to talk to people. Besides, her pasty complexion didn't exactly match our Navajo theme. She wore the same shaggy hairdo that many white women wore in the 70s. The bleached streaks snaked around her mullet. Who ever thought a mullet looked fab on the ladies?
The patrons wanting to play the Dream Maker would turn over their shoulder to give Dream Maker another thought, and always that Navajo flute music would sound—no carry its lure to them, and they would face Patty with glossy eyes and a robotic tone.
"I would like to play Dream Maker."
"It's your funeral." She'd smack her gum while sucking another drag from her cigarette.
Patty slipped a form through the small opening under the glass. The beguiled would look at it.
"What's this?"
"It's the terms of the Dream Maker, of course."
A head scratch usually followed as the patron's forehead crinkled. "Terms?"
"Why yes. The Dream Maker is guaranteed to pay out. But it will ruin your life. If that is fine by you, read the fine print, then sign on the bottom line." Her dry wit would get lost on them.
"I don't understand."
Patty shrugged and blew smoke rings. She always stared them down until they dropped their eyes to the form and signed their life away. After they returned the paper, Patty slipped a wooden nickel with the image of the great Manaba etched into it.
"How much do I owe you?"
Patty scooted forward, plopped her chin into her hands, and said, "Your happiness."
The patron would nervously chuckle, "No, really, how much?"
"Mike," Patty would call behind her. "No one ever listens to me." Mike would scowl his equally pasty face. Patty turned back to the glass but gazed behind the patron. "Next."
"I don't get it." They never did.
"You're holding up my line. Listen, you will pay with your happiness. Now step aside." The last part always came out rough and dry through her smoke-singed vocal cords. She looked fifty, but Shicheii said she was in her thirties. The damage her chain-smoking played on her body convinced me never to smoke. Well, I did puff the peace pipe, but that was different.
The patrons slowly walked toward the machine, trying to decide if Patty had told the truth. But they always slipped the nickel into the slot and pulled down the golden handle. It squeaked and stuck, then eventually locked into place.
The Dream Maker would come to life.
Sounds.
Lights.
Bells.
The works! The thing bobbled and rocked. The song of eagles called, then the familiar clang of coins dropping into a metal basket.
And they dropped, overfilling the basket and spilling onto the stained carpet.
Whatever trepidation the patron had vanished as they scooped their winnings. Greed replaced their glossy eyes. The Dream Maker never gave anything less than $10,000 in winnings.
I had worked in the casino most of my life. Before I was 21, I slaved in the kitchen scrubbing pans. As I got older, I moved to prep-cook, then the cook. I didn't mind my post, but every time I walked on the black carpet with the rings of turquoise swirling in it, I couldn't wait until I was old enough to work the casino floor.
I shouldn't have wanted it, as I soon discovered that floor work bored me. No one ever smiled at the slots. The gamblers slipped into trances as they burned through their life savings, desperate to win. Clouds of smoke hovered around them, adding to their dismal existence. With the Dream Maker being a guaranteed win, it seemed odd that more people didn't try their hand at it. Only about one person a week played it. Those people always won!
The Dream Maker captivated me. My eyes always widened when I walked by it. The flute music tantalized me as my chest vibrated to its call. I had to try it, but Shicheii and all the other workers forbade it.
And then, one morning, Mom's phone call woke me.
"Atsa," came her tired voice. I closed my stinging eyes. They didn't want to open at four am. I pulled my beloved Navajo rug over me. I inherited the blanket from four generations of leaders.
"You need to go to work early. Shicheii and half the staff are sick. We think it was the spinach salad." Luckily, I had gotten off work early the night before and hadn't eaten the salad.
I stumbled to turn the light on in my tiny apartment. The penthouse suite in the casino had a bathroom larger than my place. Oh well, at least I could live on my own.
I sipped Navajo Tea at the table and pushed the stack of unpaid bills away from me. My flute tumbled off the pile of bills and onto the floor.
"My baby," I said as I picked it up and returned it atop the bills. My flute had once belonged to the Navajo Hatááłii.
If only I had money to pay the bills. Why didn't Shicheii increase my wage? I couldn't go to him for a raise. Maybe when the apartment evicted me, he would realize how poorly he paid me.
I tried to think through the mental fog as I prepared for work. I never got up this early. I entered the chilly air and kept looking behind my back as I walked in the darkness of the early morning.
Branches and leaves flew into my face as the rain cut into my skin. The tropical storm released its fury about me. I tried to run to work, but the winds acted like a force pushing me backward. At least the storm hadn't turned into a hurricane. Niltsi, the Navajo Wind God, had always kept our land safe from hurricanes, blowing them away just in time to protect our clan.
When I got to the casino, I knew Mom hadn't exaggerated. The limited staff made the place feel empty. We didn't have enough workers to run blackjack and baccarat. When lunchtime came, I felt weak from hunger.
"My man, my man. Why did you order pizza? You should save your dough." Klah asked as he dusted the slot machines, running the cloth across the boxy metal.
"I ain't eating where everyone got food poisoning from."
"Seriously?" Klah covered his mouth as his eyes widened.
"Yeah, last night, I guess everyone who ate here got sick."
The tint on Klah's face went a pale green. "I ate breakfast here. That's freaky deaky. Oh man, I hope I don't get sick."
"As long as you didn't eat anything with spinach, you are probably fine."
"Can I bum a piece of pizza?"
"Of course."
Klah took a massive bite of pizza. Orange oil dripped down his chin. "Have you had a chance to look over that rent insurance I drew up for you?" His words mumbled behind wads of pizza. He wiped his hands on his dusting cloth.
"Dude, I would love to support your insurance endeavors, but I don't even have enough money to pay my electric bill."
"Yeah, but if something were to happen," he said as he shoved in more pizza. "The skinny is, you'll be left with nothing."
I put my hands up. "I am sorry. I'm broke."
He wiped his chin on the dirty cloth. "I hear ya. That's why I sell insurance. This job pays squat."
After lunch, my stomach bubbled and sloshed from the greasy pizza. A tiny fart snuck out. I hope no one heard that. Embarrassed, I looked around and then spotted the Dream Maker. It played a different flute melody. How could that be? It had only played one tune. I knew it so well that I could create it on my flute. How could it have a new song? But it did.
I gazed around to ask someone but stood alone.
The music wove under my skin and threaded through my veins and nerves. It shot up my spinal cord and overtook my brain. It took control as I walked closer to the machine.
"I will answer your dream, Atsa!"
A puff of air escaped me. It knew my name!
Stop being stupid. It doesn't know your name. This is all in your head.
Was it, though? The Dream Maker's energy shook me. Those weren't my words. They belonged to the Dream Maker, didn't they?
My hands tingled as I stood face to face with the Dream Maker. Would I ever play this magnificent money machine?
But if I won, it was like stealing from Shicheii's casino.
You will win. You know you will. You aren't stealing from Shicheii? You can't even afford to live on your own. Shicheii has stolen from you since you started working here. He owes you at least two hundred thousand dollars of lost wages. Why are you loyal to him? He has done you dirty.
"Stop it!" My hand flew to my mouth.
I looked around and relaxed when I saw no one had witnessed my outburst.
I glanced at Patty's window, but Mike sat there instead.
"Where's Patty?" I asked him after my legs carried me to the Plexiglass. I had tried to stop my legs but no longer controlled my muscles. The Dream Maker now governed me.
"Oh, didn't ya hear? Half the staff got really sick."
I rolled my eyes. You think I am stupid?
"How about a go at it?" Mike asked after I turned from him. I glanced back to Mike.
"Come again?"
He pointed his yellow-stained finger toward Dream Maker. "I see how you look at it. I won't tell your grandpa. When you win, I will write a pseudo name as the winner."
I looked over my shoulder, the new tune calling me. I scratched my head and wrinkled my forehead.
"Can I play it without signing the form?"
Mike leaned toward me. He dropped his voice to a whisper even though no one stood by us. "No, it doesn't work like that. I tried. I put in ten wooden nickels without signing the form. It didn't even turn on."
I scratched my head. "Really?"
"Really, really."
"Should I sign my name or the fake name you will give me?"
Mike slipped the form my way. "You can try a fake name, but I doubt it will work. You see, this is a binding contract between you and the Dream Maker. I think it has to be legit. But, when I give you your winnings, I will process the paperwork with a fake name so your grandpa will never know it was you. Then, I will change the name on the consent form."
"I am still going to try signing a fake name. Shicheii would kill me if he knew I played Dream Maker." I scribbled the name, Marvin Jones. Mike dropped the nickel in my hand, and I shook as I walked toward Dream Maker.
Am I going to do it? What if Shicheii is right? What if it is a dream breaker?
Images of all the people winning big flashed before my eyes. How can it be a dream breaker? And besides, I gave it a fake name. I shook uncontrollably, knocking the nickel to the floor.
"The universe is trying to warn you," came Shicheii's voice in my head. "Walk away. You do not want this."
I almost listened, but then the power from the Dream Maker activated my nerves, and I slipped the coin into the machine.
—Silence.
Nothing.
"Told you it had to be your real name."
I jumped. I didn't realize Mike stood right behind me.
He thrust a new form into my hands.
"Sign your real name this time."
I tried to resist, but I had no control as I scribbled my real name, but I did make it illegible, just in case Shicheii looked over it the next day.
Mike placed another wooden nickel into my hand. The thing pulsated and burned my skin. Quickly, before I talked myself out of it, I eased the nickel into the machine and then pulled down the golden handle. It squeaked and stuck, then eventually locked into place.
The Dream Maker came alive, dancing and whirling. An eagle sung.
Excitement. Doom. Joy. Sorrow. Every emotion rumbled through me. My stomach tightened. I should run away.
Then came the payout. The coins represented $50,000 big ones. Taking the money felt like stealing from Shicheii. Maybe I should just leave it.
I followed Mike to the window.
"You owe me half," Mike said, only delivering $25,000 through the window's opening.
"Fat chance." I thrust my open hand toward Mike.
He stared at me with his arms over his chest.
Heat rose inside me. "No games. Seriously, hand over the rest."
"It is part of my cut."
"So, I get the curse, and you get my glory. No." I banged my hand into the window. I could fight him if I had to. I had a youthful build compared to his scrawny oldness.
"Alright, then I will just let Shicheii know you are the one who won the money." He licked his dry, crusty lips.
Mike had me.
What could I do? Even though five minutes earlier that money didn't belong to me, it now possessed me. That was my $25,000, yet Mike owned me. He could call the shots.
"I'll make your life hell," I said to him.
"Good luck. I am turning in my notification today. I don't need this job anymore." He took his cut of the money and licked his lips.
I hated Mike. I shouldn't because $25,000 would still lift me out of my slum. But it was supposed to be $50,000.
Mike filled out all the appropriate paperwork, making Marvin Jones the winner. I ripped the blood contract I had signed with the Dream Maker into tiny pieces. Shicheii can never see it. I signed a new contract, signing Marvin Jones on the final line.
"I'll just shuffle that into the rest of the paperwork." Mike put the papers into a folder. "Congratulations, Marvin Jones," he said with a wink.
Outside, the winds blew around my head, pulling flyaways from my long braid. A flurry of emotions raged inside me, much like the storm. I fished the shredded contract out of my pockets. I held my palm open and watched the tiny slivers of paper float upon the wind and carry into the sky. They looked like a flock of pelicans above me, swirling around like a pelican sky dance. Shicheii would never know. My heart tightened from the guilt of deception. A shred of paper blew into my face, and I shamefully tossed it back into the air. Navajos never littered; it went against our love for the Earth, but it had to be this way.
I put my wrongdoings behind me and went to spend my new fortune. I took a bus to a dealership on the other side of town. With my head held high, I walked in like the high rollers who graced our casino. Inside the dealership, the salesmen wore cheap three-piece suits. Their wide lapels and flared pants made them look like the type who played the penny slots.
"Hi, there. My name is Greg, and I plan on taking care of you today. What car do you see yourself riding home in today?"
Greg found a golden customer in me. We didn't waste time. I had my eye set on the cherry of the lot, the sixth-generation 1972 Ford Thunderbird.
"How do you plan on financing it?" Greg leaned in too close, and I tasted his gas-station cologne.
I took two steps back. "Cash, of course," I said, handing over $13,782.00. Greg's eyes widened as a sly grin moved across his face.
With the smell of new car soaring my spirits, I drove to People's Choice Bank.
"I would like to deposit $14,000 into my account." I held my head high. With dignity, I slipped the cash and a deposit form across the counter.
The teller scribbled something on the form and then smiled at me. "That will post to your account in two to three days."
"Perfect," I said.
At my apartment complex, I parked my gold luxury car in my stall, the first time I had ever used that spot. I planned to walk to work the next day. I can't let Shicheii and Mom see me in this car. They'll ask me how I bought it.
The following day at work, I couldn't stop shaking. When I stood, my legs trembled. I couldn't keep my hands still as I wrote.
"I'm buggin' out. Seems weird that Mike Harris just quit," Patty said as she handed me a stack of chips to take to the blackjack table. "Did he tell you why?"
My palms burned, and I looked away.
Patty leaned back and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "I tried calling him, but his phone is disconnected. -So weird."
I turned toward the blackjack table. I needed to get away from her before I gave anything away.
"Atsa." I knew Shicheii's deep voice well. I closed my eyes and turned. I couldn't look at him, passing the chips between my hands.
"I need to speak with you in my office."
-Such authority. Such tone.
"Let me just drop off the chips first."
I shambled slowly to the blackjack table, then Shicheii's office. I could smell my sweat.
"Sit," he said when I entered. He dominated behind his wide desk. I sat in the hard chair. I didn't recall a time when he had told me to sit there. The metal poked into my spine. I squirmed in my seat, wondering, Should I lie to him? What should I tell him? Maybe I should confess first before he traps me in my lie.
Shicheii cracked his knuckles above the desk. I snuck a peak into those flaming eyes, forcing me to look away.
"Atsa, this is not good."
"I am sorry."
"I don't know how to start, but..."
"I didn't mean to. I just couldn't help myself."
"Then it is your fault?"
I wrapped my arms around my chest. "Yeah, I guess."
"You did it on purpose? But why?"
"I don't know. I guess because you don't pay me enough." Why was I shifting the blame?
Shicheii's voice deepened. "What do you mean? I have been good to you. You have always had a job."
Phlegm in my voice gurgled my words. "I just can't make rent nor pay my bills."
Shicheii leaped out of his chair. "So, you burnt your apartment down!"
"Burnt my apartment down? What! Wait? What are you talking about?
"I don't see how burning your apartment down would solve your financial problems unless you got one of those insurance policies from Klah."
"My apartment burned down?" My chest tightened and trapped my breath.
"I am talking about your apartment burning down. The fire marshal called to see if you were at work or had died in the fire. What are you talking about? I need to understand you fully. Did you or did you not burn down your apartment to collect on renter's insurance?"
My tone raised to sound like Mom's voice. "Why would I burn my apartment down? I don't even have insurance."
The tense line between Shicheii's eyes softened. "I am glad you didn't burn down your apartment. That is not the Navajo way."
I paced the office. "What am I going to do? Did they save anything?"
Shicheii looked away as his eyes softened. "I am sorry. All is gone."
I bounced up and down. "What am I going to do?"
"Take the rest of the day off. You can stay with me for a week until you find a new place to live."
Shicheii radiated love. Love, for me. Me, the one who broke his rule. Me, the one who, in a way, took $50,000 from him. My stomach tightened, and my eyes burned as I fought off the tears. I didn't deserve Shicheii's love or compassion.
"Thank you."
As I walked through the casino, Klah stopped me.
"I am sorry about your apartment."
"Yeah. Me too."
"My man, my man. You must be freaking out. You can crash on my couch until you get on your feet." He put his hand on my elbow.
Klah's pad seemed a better option than staying with Shicheii. Granted, Shicheii would give me the guest room and better food, yet I had wronged him. I couldn't stay there, knowing my sin.
"The key is under the dog statue in the garden."
I clasped Klah on the shoulder, "Thanks."
I walked to my apartment, and the smell of burnt wood met me blocks before I arrived.
The structure had burnt pretty much to the ground. Yellow caution tape blocked the pile of smelting rubble.
"My car!" I realized.
I looked across the parking lot and discovered my slamming car untouched.
"No!" I slapped my hand against my forehead. I had left my keys in the apartment. At least my car didn't get damaged.
Stomach pains hit me. What if I hadn't deposited the money? I would have lost everything.
No! My heirloom Navajo rug and my Navajo Flute! Darkness entered when I realized they had burned. I loved my car, but those two items had more sentimental value than anything else I owned.
I couldn't stop the tears as I took the bus to the locksmith.
"I need a new set of keys," I told him. Hopefully, he couldn't tell I had cried. I stood in a large showroom that didn't have much but piles of dirty rags and empty boxes. It smelt like tamales, and my stomach grumbled.
"No problem. Where is your car?"
"It is at the Rolling Greens apartment complex."
"Oh, was that your home?"
"Yeah."
The technician grabbed a metal box. The dents in the chipping green paint reminded me of Mike. He often would do small maintenance jobs around the casino, carrying a similar toolbox.
"Usually, we charge a $5 service fee for house calls, but I will waive it for you."
I put my hands in a point, much like giving almes. "Thank you."
Dawn took over the sky as I pulled into Klah's driveway, and he came out.
"Nice shaggin' wagon," he said as I climbed out of the car. He walked around the Thunderbird, running his hand across the paint. I worried he would smudge or scratch it, but I held my tongue.
"There's no way you can afford a car like this. Where did you steal it from?"
Normally, I would laugh at his jokes, but the ache I carried stopped me.
"I got a loan at People's Choice." I dashed my eyes away, unable to look at him while I lied.
"They wouldn't give you a loan. There is no way you make enough."
"Well, I cashed in some bonds, and it was a significant down payment."
"Hmm," he said, staring me over. "For someone who just bought a dream car, you don't seem too happy."
"My apartment burned down."
Klah put his hand on my shoulder.
"You know I hate to say it."
"Say what?"
"You should have bought renters' insurance."
"Yeah, that doesn't help."
"Let me set you up with an insurance policy for this car. You can't afford to lose it if you were to get into an accident."
"Yes. I would like that."
"I don't have the paperwork here at home. First thing in the morning, come with me to my office, and we will get you insured.
We sat on Klah's couch, and the walls seemed to swallow us with how tight it felt there. I couldn't believe he lived in a space smaller than my apartment had been.
"We need to get out of here. It is too depressing in here. How about you give me a ride in your wheels? We could go to the bar and forget about your loss."
I pulled the new set of keys out of my pocket. "Sounds exactly like what I need."
The bar did an excellent job of diminishing my dismal feelings. I chugged beer after beer, allowing them to wash my dread away.
After my fourth beer, Klah put his hand on my shoulder. "I hate to break up our party, but we gotta skitty since we both have work in the morning; plus, we have to leave extra early so we can stop by my office and get insurance on your car."
I didn't want to stop drinking, but I couldn't argue with Klah. I stumbled to the Thunderbird and plopped into the seat.
"I think you had too much to drink," Klah said, getting into the passenger side. "Maybe you should let me drive."
"Nice try," I said as the engine roared to life. "Just listen to that. That, my friend, is power."
Klah gripped his seat. "Are you sure you are up to driving?"
"You live less than two miles away. Chill. I will give you a chance to drive another time. But I just bought it and want to drive."
"Whatever."
I hadn't gone a mile when I turned left onto Elm Street. I didn't see the truck coming at us, I swear.
Sickening crunching vibrated through the car as the truck lurched into Klah's side, plowing us across the intersection and creaming us into a ditch. When the smoke settled, I looked at Klah, but he wasn't there. Shards of glass littered his seat and the dashboard—slivers of glass embedded into my hair and clothes.
"Klah!" I screamed.
In the emergency room, the doctor finished setting the cast on both of my legs when a police officer put me in cuffs.
"Sit here," he barked, shoving me into a wheelchair.
"How is Klah?"
They had found his body on the road. Thankfully, he had lived.
The doctor turned from me and said, "He is in a coma. We don't know if he will make it."
Klah's words haunted me. "Maybe you should let me drive."
I should have.
"You are in big trouble, mister," the officer said on the drive to jail. "Driving under the influence. Plus, no insurance. Not only is your car totaled, but you are responsible for the costs of the truck you totaled."
The officer took a swig from his mug, then spit the last part out in disdain. "And vehicular homicide. I hope they lock you up forever."
"But Klah lived," I said in a pathetic tone.
"Mike Harris, the other driver, died. Died by your selfishness."
My head spun.
I had killed Mike Harris!
Inside my cell, I puked and puked and puked. I didn't know if the alcohol made me sick or the fact that Klah lay in a coma and Mike had died by me.
My head pounded in the morning from the hangover and stress when I called People's Choice.
"I need $3,000 for bail. How do I get that sent over to the jail?"
"Let me see," the lady on the phone said. "It looks like you only have $22 in your account."
"No way! I deposited fourteen thousand yesterday."
"That will be available tomorrow."
"Tomorrow! I need it today. That doesn't make sense. I gave you cash. My cash. I need it today."
"I am sorry. You will have to wait until tomorrow. There is nothing I can do."
I sat on the cement bench and bawled.
"Oh, stuff it," my jail mate said. "Stop your bellyaching."
I ignored him.
As I wiped my nose on my sleeve, the hurricane siren rang.
"Get us out of here," my jail mate yelled, shaking the bars.
"Hunker under your bunks," an officer said.
"You are going to leave us here to die?"
"Hunker under your bed. They will protect you."
As I held myself under the cement slab, I passed out. When I awoke, I could hear the roaring of the storm outside. "Niltsi will save us. He always does," I chanted, unsure of my words.
After two thousand years passed, the storm ended. Thankfully it hadn't touched the jail. My jail mate and I crawled out of our hiding places and sat on our beds.
We heard the news of the hurricane trickle in the rest of the day.
"Yeah, toppled the whole thing." I heard the officers talking.
"It's not really much of a loss. That place was so dated and old."
"Yeah, but it's the only place to gamble."
I limped to the bars, dragging each casted leg. The pain radiated through both legs. "Did Eagle's Landing get hit in the hurricane?" I asked, too afraid of their answers.
One of the officers looked at me. "Oh, my. I am sorry. That is your grandad's place, isn't it?"
I didn't answer.
"Sorry. The hurricane destroyed it."
"No!" I screamed, my emotions shredding my throat raw. I looked back at my jail mate with fists clenched. Dare him to say anything to me. That night, I couldn't sleep.
The next morning, I had to make bail. I needed to check on my family. Rumor had it that everyone at the casino had died. Other tales said no one died. I needed to get out and be with my family.
"Can I use the phone?"
"What for?" the officer asked.
"I need to call the People's Choice Bank. My money should have posted, and I need to get out of here and check on my family. The hurricane destroyed our casino."
"Didn't you hear? The hurricane also destroyed the People's Choice Bank as well. All the money and records in it were lost."
"What do you mean lost?"
"Lost. We aren't sure anyone will get their money back. This is going to affect half the town who had their money in the bank."
Another officer came in and unlocked the cell. I stepped forward.
"Sit down. You ain't getting out. Todd Clements, grab your things."
My jail mate smugged me as he walked out to freedom. The large cell doors clanged as they shut and locked me in.
I sat in that cell for two weeks. I had a constant influx and departure of cellmates, all lucky to leave. Not me. I just rotted there.
Thick acid scorched my throat with reflux. My fingers shivered with the constant cold.
Into the third week, the officers hogtied me and took me to a visiting room. After they went over the rules of the visit, the doors opened to let my visitor in.
Shicheii shuffled in, looking twenty years older. Large bags billowed under his eyes, and he appeared thinner. My heart sank. I hadn't told my family I was here. I guess that didn't matter. Word spread like fire.
"I heard about the hurricane. Sorry about the casino," I said. Shicheii didn't sit. His ice-cold stare froze the blood in my veins.
"Because of you, all is lost."
I knew I would lose his pride in me with my DUI, but what did he mean?
"How so?"
"Everything lost in the hurricane."
"How does that have anything to do with me?"
Shicheii threw a piece of paper at my feet.
"You are dead to me." He turned his back and the officer let him out of the room.
It felt as if the ceiling had fallen on my head.
I picked up the paper. I held the contract I had signed with the Dream Maker. How could that be? The replica of my signature screamed the reality of it. But how? I had shredded the contract into tiny pieces and watched the pieces fly away in the wind.
But there, the contract sat in my fingers.
Because of my selfishness, I had imposed a curse upon my apartment, Klah, and the town's finances. I had killed Mike Harris. I had destroyed my family's legacy and severed my family ties.
I had made a deal with Dream Maker.
True, the elders were right.
I had traded everything for a dream.
_________________________________________________
The Dream Taker
by Stephanie Daich
