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Risking ridicule, I suggested we spend the night in a hotel, so I could get my shit together in a dry place. Huck and Greeny stared at me, unamused. “You want to spend the whole summer outside,” they asked, “but you’re afraid of a little rain?” I quickly conceded, and we agreed to camp along the river.

The following morning, as rain continued to fall in sheets, we were awakened by the electric-motor hum of a maintenance vehicle. Driving it was a worker in green coveralls, who pretended not to notice that our tents were set up between a sand trap and the 13th green, in the middle of a golf course.

I stuffed everything I could into our packs with indiscriminate haste, and then we drove into Wahpeton and ate a greasy breakfast at Fryn’ Pan Family Restaurant, which was crowded that Sunday morning with starched churchgoers. They regarded us with glares of provincial intolerance as I worried about José. He looked nervous, exhausted, and uncharacteristically reserved. I tried to goad him out of his shell. “Hey bro, what’s wrong with these people? They’re acting like they’ve never seen an Indian before.”