The old Native American walks slowly but he walks for at least two hours every day. If you ask the old man his name, he will look at you with his dark brown eyes. He will smile. And he will tell you it is Marlon. The Spirits know him by a different name. Marlon doesn't mention his Indian name to just about anybody. They wouldn't understand it anyway – it's a long name, it is sacred to him and it is in his Native language. “Don't mention your Indian name to strangers,” Marlon had told his grandchildren several years ago, “they may put a curse on you. But if they don't know your Indian name, they cannot put a curse on you.” His grandchildren lived on land that belongs to a white farmer today but they are all grown up now and moved to the city, so Marlon never gets to see his grandchildren these days.

This morning that white farmer came speeding toward Marlon on his ATV. Marlon looked up and saw that he was carrying a shotgun. He said to the farmer, “Just taking my morning walk, Sir. I live in that small house three miles up this road.” Marlon indicated the red house that was still visible in the distance with his chin. He didn't point. He never pointed. Only the skin-walkers pointed.