Bad Cree

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Contents Dedication Epigraph ᐯᔭᐠ ᓃᓱ ᓂᐢᑐ ᓀᐅᐧ ᓃᔮᓇᐣ ᓂᑯᑖᐧᓯᐠ ᑌᐸᑯᐦᑊ ᐊᔨᓈᓀᐤ ᑫᑳᒥᑖᑕᐦᐟ ᒥᑖᑕᐦᐟ ᐯᔭᑯᓵᑊ ᓃᓱᓵᑊ ᓂᐢᑐᓵᑊ ᓀᐅᐧᓵᑊ ᓃᔮᓇᓄᓵᑊ ᓂᑯᑖᐧᓱᓵᑊ ᑌᐸᑯᐦᐳᓵᑊ ᐊᔨᓈᓀᐅᐧᓵᑊ Acknowledgements A Note About the Author Landmarks Cover Cover Title Page Contents Start Copyright Print Page List iii iv v vii 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 257 258 259 261 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 Copyright © 2023 by Jessica Johns
 All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
 www.doubleday.com
 DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
 The epigraph “Auntie” by Edzi’u is used with permission.
 Cover photograph © Ramzi Chebbi / EyeEm / Getty
 Cover design by Emily Mahon
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 Library of Congress Control number 2022933347
 ISBN: 978-0-385-54869-4 (print)
 ISBN: 978-0-385-54870-0 (ebook)
 Ebook ISBN 9780385548700
 ep_prh_6.0_142226817_c0_r0
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Copyright
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 
 
 ᐯᔭᐠ
 
 
 ᓃᓱ
 
 
 ᓂᐢᑐ
 
 
 ᓀᐅᐧ
 
 
 ᓃᔮᓇᐣ
 
 
 ᓂᑯᑖᐧᓯᐠ
 
 
 ᑌᐸᑯᐦᑊ
 
 
 ᐊᔨᓈᓀᐤ
 
 
 ᑫᑳᒥᑖᑕᐦᐟ
 
 
 ᒥᑖᑕᐦᐟ
 
 
 ᐯᔭᑯᓵᑊ
 
 
 ᓃᓱᓵᑊ
 
 
 ᓂᐢᑐᓵᑊ
 
 
 ᓀᐅᐧᓵᑊ
 
 
 ᓃᔮᓇᓄᓵᑊ
 
 
 ᓂᑯᑖᐧᓱᓵᑊ
 
 
 ᑌᐸᑯᐦᐳᓵᑊ
 
 
 ᐊᔨᓈᓀᐅᐧᓵᑊ
 
 
 Acknowledgements
 A Note About the Author
 
 
 _142226817_
 
 
 
 To Mom and Dad—
 thank you for giving me every opportunity to dream this book into reality. I love you.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 AUNTIE
 by Edzi’u
 Auntie is mood. Auntie is spirit. Auntie is prayer. Auntie is medicines. Auntie is dream. Auntie is hope. Auntie is smarten up. Auntie is feeling. Auntie is encouragement. Auntie keeps going. Auntie has no gender. Aunties save lives. Embody Auntie. Be Auntie. Say Auntie.
 
 
 
 
 
 ᐯᔭᐠ
 Before I look down, I know it’s there. The crow’s head I was clutching in my dream is now in bed with me. I woke up with the weight of it in my hands, held against my chest under the covers. I can still feel its beak and feathers on my palms. The smell of pine and the tang of blood sting my nose. My pillow feels for a second like the cold, frozen ground under my cheek. I yank off my blanket, heavy like I’m pulling it back from the past, and look down to my hands, now empty. A feeling of static pulses inside them like when a dead limb fills with blood again. They are clean and dry and trembling.
 Shit. Not again.
 I step gingerly out of bed, as though the world in front of me might break, and turn on the light, wait for my eyes to adjust. It illuminates my blanket on the floor, the grey sheet kicked into a clump. Every breath I take is laboured, and when I blink, my dream flashes onto the back of my eyelids. Running through the woods. The snow glistening in the clearing. The crows covering Sabrina’s body.
 Heart thumping in my chest, I kneel next to the bed, how I imagine I might if I ever were to pray. “Come on,” I plead into the covers. “Where are you?”
 I feel across the bedsheet for anything: blood, feathers, twig-small bones. My fingers shake and search by touch in between pillows, into every crease and wrinkle of the fitted sheet. I turn on the flashlight on my phone and use it to look into shadows, but I find nothing. My shirt, when I bring it up to my nose, smells like the outside in winter, like pine trees and sharp cold.
 “You son of a bitch, come on.” I kick the blanket to the side and put my cheek to the floor, scanning underneath the bed and bedside table. Dust and crumbs sit forgotten in dry corners. An old plate, mould forming along the ridges, lies next to holey socks. I close my eyes. My awake mind is trying to fog the dream over, shake it away, but I hold on to it. I know it was there, in my hand. As real as the floor still against my cheek, I was holding a crow’s head