You walk into the bar, and this could be any bar in North Dakota, where the floors are filthy from the boots of oil field workers and the air is foul from their meth-rotted mouths.
       You walk into the bar, and this could be any bar, where the biggest man is also the loudest, as he brags to his friends about his shiny behemoth of a truck that sits in the parking lot, his words echoing with cruelty and hate.
       You walk into the bar, and this could be any bar, but it's not, because this one lies outside the town where you grew up, on the reservation you left when you were old enough, a res you return to now only because your dying uncle asked for you.
       You saddle up to the lone empty stool at the counter, thoughts of a greasy hamburger and Coke in your head. Beside you, a kid in an old parka, but you see that's not true. It's not a kid; it's a dwarf.
       In a meaty hand, he holds an iPhone. In the fat fingers of his other is a twisted and frayed charger cord. He seems perplexed.
       You tell him it looks broken. That he probably needs a new one.
       He turns, and you're taken aback by his features--his flat upturned nose, jutting Neanderthal brow, and eyes that simmer somewhere between anger and madness. The Creator did him no favors with his height, you think to yourself, and did him worse with his looks.
       You reach into your coat pocket, fumbling for your own charger, and hold it out to him, saying he can borrow it. An act of kindness, an act of compassion.
       His thick, bushy eyebrows don't quite conceal the narrowing of his eyes. His lips curl back to reveal white teeth that end in points. You think of a wild animal.
       You're about to tell him that really, it's okay if he wants to borrow it, when you're aware of a presence behind you. It's the big man.
       "Ain't you the ugliest thing on God's Earth," he says. His breath reeks of bad choices made and to be made.
       "Leave him alone," you say, surprising yourself. You know how these situations turn out for Indians caught in the unfriendly territory of white bars, but the inevitability of a beating is nothing compared to what you imagine these men would do to someone so small and defenseless.
       "Leave him alone," you say, sliding off the stool and standing before him. He towers over you, and his friends are by his side, a sudden forest of white men. You turn back to look at the dwarf, but his stool is vacant. The surprise on your face matches the surprise on the faces of the men.
       For your act of foolish heroism, the big man punches you in the stomach, and when you double over, his friends toss you out the door and into the snow. You land face first, and though you can hear the door to the bar close behind them, you lay there for a while, gasping for breath. Finally, you push yourself up on your hands and knees, brush your long hair out of your face, and look around the parking lot. There's the shiny behemoth of a truck the big man was bragging about. You squint. In the glow of the towering streetlight, you see all four of his tires have been shredded, great chunks torn from even the rims.
       You think of a bear and wonder if it's still lumbering around the lot. You scramble to your feet and run to your car. Only when you drive off do you ask yourself why a bear would do that to someone's tires.

       "Aho, neph," says your uncle when he greets you. You reply with an "aho" and embrace him. Through his bathrobe, you can feel his frame is skeletal. You try to make light of it, say at least the chemo didn't take his hair.
       "I need you to do something after I'm gone," he says, getting right to the point.
       That he would ask you is an honor. You tell him you would do anything for him.
       "Aho," he says. "I need you to look after my friend." He tilts his head toward the living room. You realize that the TV is on and that there's someone in the recliner before it.
       You can't see them, but you can see the kid-sized parka lying on the edge of the couch.
       "His name is Heck," says your uncle. "Short for Hecesiiteihii, which is the name of his kind. Or one of the names."
       You don't understand.
       "He is not human, neph," says your uncle.
       When you were a child, the threat of being taken by the little people was commonly wielded against the misbehaving. Were those little people... real?
       Your uncle gestures at the recliner. "Long before the white man came, we fought them in a war. We won." His eyes go to the floor, and now his words have shame in them. "Everything the white man did to us--take our lands, take our lives, stamp out our traditions--we did to them first. You were born into a people burdened with a debt too great to ever be repaid."
       You tell him this is a lot to swallow. You tell him that you thought he'd called you because he wanted you to perform some traditional rite at his funeral or something.
       He laughs, which turns into a coughing fit. After clearing his throat and catching his breath, he says, "The hell you know about tradition, dumbass? You left the res to live among the whites." He shakes his head. "No, you're just the most responsible. Most trustworthy."
       You stare at the recliner.
       "He's a mean son-of-a-gun," says your uncle. "Make him angry, he'll rip your arms off. But he's over two hundred years old. Drinks cheap beer. Gets antsy if you don't keep up on the HBO bill and can't have too much pop 'cause he might have the beginnings of diabetes. 'Course, he can't ever go to a doctor--they'd dissect him in a laboratory."
       You tell him this is crazy. You tell him you're building a life for yourself, that you're going to enroll in community college. You ask what will happen if no one takes care of his friend.
       Your uncle shrugs, the bones of his shoulders poking through his bathrobe. "He'd survive. Probably dig a hole near a river to live in and steal a head of cattle whenever he's hungry. But he might just as soon go back to eating people, too. You want that hanging over you, knowing you could've prevented it?"
       Another coughing fit, and this time you must ease your uncle to one of the chairs around the kitchen table.
       When he can breathe again, he says, "Keep his Internet on. Keep the electricity on. Make sure the ice box is full. We owe it to him. It's the least we can do."
       You tell him you're sorry, but you can't.
       "Aho," he says.

       A day later, your uncle is gone, and you're left wondering if he'd waited just to ask you this favor.
       A day after that and he's ashes in an urn, and among the gathered family and friends in the drab, concrete community center, you're left wondering if anyone else knows the truth about the figure in the parka, who stands quietly against the wall and is completely ignored.
       The elders pray, the elders sing, and after most--but not all--take a turn sharing aloud a funny memory of your uncle, food is served from foil trays.
       You don't want to be here, don't feel like you belong, so you say nothing and eat nothing. Instead, you make a beeline to the door, stopping before your uncle's little friend. In your hand is your phone charger. "Here," you say. He takes it in silence. Then you're gone.

       You walk into the bar, and this could be any bar in North Dakota, where the floors are filthy, and the oil field workers stand waist-deep in muddy disdain for Indians.
       You walk into the bar, and this could be any bar, where the biggest man is also the meanest, and cruelty is a fire that smolders and burns.
       You walk into the bar, and this could be any bar, but it's not because this is the one outside the town where you grew up, on the reservation you left because you never fit in.
       As you take an empty stool, thoughts of a greasy hamburger, a Coke, and the inescapable notion that you've let your uncle down are in your head.
       You're aware of the presence of someone behind you. It's the big man and his forest of friends.
       He punches you in the stomach, and when you double over, two of them bring you outside, your legs dragging in the snow as they take you around back, where there are no witnesses.
       In the big man's hands is a shiny handgun. He makes a show of cocking it, pressing the barrel to your forehead while you kneel on the cold ground before him. You shiver and try to catch your breath.
       "I don't think you did that to my truck," he says. "But you know who did it."
       "Get screwed," you say, surprising yourself. You know how these situations turn out for Indians caught in the vengeful maw of whites high on meth and hate, but you already failed your uncle once by refusing to help. Betrayal--of your uncle and his little friend--would only make it worse, and you'd rather die doing something right than live doing something wrong.
       "Get screwed," you say, accepting that this is it. He towers over you, and with the gun pressed to your forehead, you inhale deeply and close your eyes.
       There's the sound of the wind. The sound of a car on the highway in the distance. And, then, the sound of three bodies falling limp in the snow. You open your eyes.
       The big man and his friends look like they were set upon by a bear. But it happened in an instant, and you heard nothing. You glance down, expecting to see yourself splattered with blood, and are shocked that you're clean. It takes a moment for you to realize that the dwarf is standing there.
       In one of his hands, some kind of tomahawk-like tool that curves out into three blades. It drips with blood.
       His thick, bushy eyebrows don't quite conceal the narrowing of his eyes. His lips curl back to reveal white teeth that end in points. You think of an animal growling.
       With the bodies of the big man and two friends still twitching in the snow, you don't know what you're supposed to do. So you speak. "My name is Elliott Red Feather," you say.
       He grunts. Says, "No shit, dumbass. Thanks for the charger."
       And he helps you up.