Kimberly Guerrero

We don't have any guns or beer.

It's a legal technicality, that's all.

My daughter's Blackfoot, too.

The woman opened a briefcase and took out a couple of forms and began to write on one of them.

Everyone who crosses our border has to declare their citizenship, and here's what I'll do.

You tell me, and I won't put it down on the form.

No one will know but you and me.

Her gun was silver.

There were several chips in the wood handle, and the name Stella was scratched into the metal butt.

We were in the border office for about four hours, and we talked to almost everyone there.

One of the men bought me a Coke.

My mother brought a couple of sandwiches from the car.

I offered a part of mine to Stella, but she said she wasn't hungry.

I told Stella that we were Blackfoot and Canadian, but she said that didn't count because I was a minor.

In the end, she told us that if my mother didn't declare her citizenship, we would have to go back to where we came from.

My mother stood up and thanked Stella for her time, then we got back in the car and drove to the Canadian border, which is only about 100 yards away.

I was disappointed.

I hadn't seen Letitia for a long time, and I had never been to Salt Lake City.

When she was still at home, Letitia would go on and on about Salt Lake City.

She'd never been there, but her boyfriend, Lester Tallbull, had spent an entire year in Salt Lake at a technical school.