Return to Dead Horse Canyon: Grandfather Spirits

SARA'S DENVER CONDO

July 24, Tuesday

1:50 p.m.

Sara sat at the same desk where she'd prepared various reports and presentations during her high school and college years. It felt comfortable, providing a timeless sense of déjà-vu. This time the task at hand was to enlighten the Today Show's audience on the sordid side of Western World history.

As if that were going to happen from one short interview.

She was a logical, intelligent person who valued information, but knew all too well not everyone thought like she did.

She smirked.

Too many didn't think at all.

Tomb Raider above the bed caught her eye, confirming her heroine agreed.

That said, presenting factual data tended to impress anyone with half a brain. Facts didn't lie or distort like opinions. Furthermore, having them on hand provided credibility.

Her experiences were facts that she could back up with tangible evidence, like the dashcam video and everything they released to WikiLeaks.

Another fact was how outrageous it was for the government to spend billions of dollars on a facility like PURF when there were so many genuinely needy people in the country, especially veterans and Native Americans.

Congress knew it was wrong, legal or not, or they wouldn't have hidden it in the Black Budget.

And what about the country's aging roads, bridges, dams, and power grids?.

One way or another, for this upcoming gig, she needed to be prepared. One thing was clear—those with satisfactory lives were rarely concerned for those less fortunate.

She knew because she'd been one of them.

Thus, she started googling the information she needed, determined to find appropriate factoids, quotes, or statistics to back up the injustices, particularly against those citizens who'd been lost and forgotten.

She easily discovered there were over forty thousand homeless veterans—enough to populate a medium-sized town.

What she'd seen on the reservation opened her eyes like never before. Had she awoken there, not knowing where she was, she would have thought it was a Third World country, not the United States of America.

When she googled the per capita median income for Native Americans on reservations, it was a mere $29,097, compared to $41,994 for Americans nationally. On the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, the per capita income was the lowest in the country at $1,539 per year.

How could any reasonable person not see something wrong with that?

Her thoughts shifted to Charlie. How was he doing? Hopefully better. He was in such a debilitated state when they dropped him off. At least his family appeared reasonably comfortable besides being some of the nicest people she'd ever met.

She leaned back in the chair, ready for a nap. Her energy level still wasn't what it was before the accident. But her life had never been so upended before, either.

After this interview, she vowed to take a break and rest for a while. Plan out exactly what she hoped to accomplish and how. A podcast or YouTube channel sounded better each day. Then she could say whatever she wanted, however she wanted, whenever she wanted.

Provided the site didn't censor her, which was known to happen. Another one of Bryan's favorite gripes.

In what was supposed to be a free country why should the truth be outlawed? What was happening? No wonder Bryan, who'd served his country in the military, was incensed.

Loneliness filled her heart, reminding again that he was gone forever. She got up and stared out the window at the unending cars along the Diagonal.

He was lucky.

He didn't have to deal with it anymore.