His skin was red, and he was drinking fire-water with me, a paleface. He was living in a Recreational Vehicle, out in the cold, insulated only through thin blankets covered with smallpox viruses. >You told me of your travels. You must come from a nomadic tribe. He didn't want to answer. >I'm not certain. Are you here to take me somewhere else? He gazed off into a distance, seeing something I could not. >I didn't come here for this. I didn't come here to talk. I came here to make myself listen. I can speak whenever I choose. It isn't hard. What is hard is listening. I force myself to listen, paleface. I don't need to be heard, I need to hear. Put your ear to the ground, and hear the coming stampede. Listen now, or forget everything. I'll give you a voice, I'll let you say what you need, but, in exchange, you have to hear it all. I left. And he left too. And I can never do him justice.