The community center sat across from the elder housing complex, a squat brick building with faded murals on the side and a playground out back where the swings always squeaked. It was the heart of the reservation — birthday parties, basketball games, after‑school programs, language classes, everything happened here.
When I pulled into the lot, Samantha was already outside, arms folded, scanning the parking spaces like she was waiting for trouble.
She spotted my truck and exhaled in relief.
“Inside,” she said, not bothering with hello. “It’s Milo.”
My stomach tightened. “How bad?”
“Not fainting bad. But not good.”
We walked in together. The center smelled like floor wax and frybread — someone must’ve been prepping for a fundraiser later. Kids’ voices echoed from the gym, but the hallway was quiet.
Samantha led me to the small first‑aid room near the office.
Milo Littlebird sat on the exam table, legs dangling, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He looked even smaller than usual — pale, sweaty, eyes too bright. A plastic trash bin sat beside him, lined with a fresh bag.
He gave me a weak smile. “Hi, Officer Morningstar.”
“Hey, bud.” I kept my voice soft. “Rough morning?”
He nodded, then winced like the motion hurt. “My stomach’s weird.”
Samantha handed me a clipboard with her notes. “He threw up twice. Dizzy. Headache. Says his nose burns.”
I crouched, so I was eye‑level with him. “Did this start today?”
“Last night,” he whispered. “But I didn’t want to say anything.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged, eyes dropping. “Auntie’s tired. She worked late. I didn’t want her to worry.”
Of course, he didn’t.
Kids like Milo carried their families on their backs with no one asking them to.
“Did you eat anything weird?” I asked gently. “Old leftovers? Gas station snacks?”
He shook his head. “Just cereal.”
“Any chance you’re getting sick? Flu? Stomach bug?”
Another shake. “It’s not like that.”
I glanced at Samantha. She gave a small, tight nod; she agreed.
I turned back to Milo. “Tanner said you guys were by the coulee yesterday.”
Milo’s shoulders hunched. “We weren’t doing anything bad.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m not here to get you into any trouble.”
He peeked up at me. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
He took a shaky breath. “It smelled weird.”
My pulse kicked. “Weird how?”
“Like… like when Auntie takes off her nail polish. But stronger. And it made my head feel floaty.”
“Toluene,” Samantha murmured under her breath.
Milo blinked. “What’s that?”
“Nothing you should be smelling,” I said.
He swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to go home sick. Auntie’s got the twins today. They’re loud.”
I smiled softly. “You’re allowed to be sick, Milo.”
He looked unconvinced.
###
After Samantha got him settled with water and a cool cloth, we stepped into the hallway.
She lowered her voice. “This isn’t normal.”
“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”
“Three kids in two days? Same symptoms? Same location?” whispered Samantha.
I rubbed my temples. “I know.”
“And the smell?” she pressed. “Eliza, that’s not nothing.”
“I know.”
She crossed her arms. “You’re thinking PMEP.”
“I’m thinking we need more information.”
“That’s not a no,” she said.
“It’s not a yes either.”
She huffed. “You’re impossible.”
“Occupational hazard.”
But the truth was sitting heavily in my chest. Kids didn’t get sick like this. Not all at once. Not from skipping rocks.
And the smell — that chemical bite — it wasn’t something you imagined.
Samantha leaned against the wall. “His auntie’s stretched thin. If he gets worse, she won’t be able to handle it.”
“I’ll check on him tonight.”
“You always do.” Samantha whispered.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
###
When I stepped outside, the sun was higher, the air warming fast. A PMEP truck moved along the county road in the distance — a white shape glinting against the coulee ridge, too far to make out the driver, just close enough to remind me they were there.
Dust trailed behind it like a tail.
They never came onto the reservation. They didn’t need to. Their presence pressed in from the edges, a constant reminder that the county had opened the door and left us to deal with whatever blew through.
I watched the truck disappear behind the rise.
They knew I was paying attention. And I knew they were counting on distance to keep me from seeing too much.
I got into my truck and sat for a moment, hands on the wheel.
Milo’s pale face. Tanner’s headache. Jayden’s burning nose. Koda’s dizziness.
Four kids. One coulee. One mile from a drilling site that wasn’t supposed to affect us.
I started the engine.
Time to talk to Gordo again.
Time to stop pretending this was nothing.