Chapter 9: The Glovebox

Soren's POV

I keep the notebook in the glovebox, between the registration and a tire gauge, and the cover says FORMS.

I wrote that on the cover so no one would open it.

It has worked for two years.

I do not rehearse.

I want that on the record.

I draft, which is different, because a draft stays in the truck.

The truck was parked at the end of the lodge road after the Sitting Supper, facing Kettle Lake with the engine off.

In the rearview mirror a large man was looking back at me.

I cleared my throat and read draft nine.

"Aino Laitinen," I said, to the mirror. "I find you extremely competent."

The man in the mirror winced.

That was a bad one.

I crossed out "extremely."

I crossed out "competent."

Then I looked at what was left, which was "I find you," and I closed the notebook and put my forehead on the wheel.

At supper she had sat across from me with fifteen index cards and an Elder shouting about bonds.

She did not look embarrassed.

I could see her adjusting the plan.

Then her cards went on the floor, and she laughed.

I had never heard a woman laugh at something she had planned to prevent.

Draft eighteen was the formal one.

I read it to the mirror with my chin raised.

"I would be honored if you would sit at my right hand as Luna of Copper Harbor and Chair's mate, subject to ratification."

It sounded like a mortgage.

Draft thirty-one was at the bottom of the page, in pencil.

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