Free A Certain Kind of Hero by Kathleen Eagle

bitten into. “It came up in a class once.” His mouth was still half-full, so the words sounded juicy. “Social studies.” He swallowed and licked his lips. “We were talking about current events. One of the other guys heard the name Defender on the news and asked if I was related. I said I didn’t know.”
    â€œWhy did you say that?”
    â€œâ€™Cause I don’t.” He shrugged and popped the rest of the plum into his mouth. After he spat the pit into the wastebasket, he allowed, “Not by blood, anyway. Figured I can say I’m related, or I can say I’m not. Depends on how you look at it and who’s askin’.”
    â€œWhat would you say now?” she wondered, the shorts forgotten.
    He had to think about that one. “I guess I feel like he’s my uncle.”
    â€œGood.” She tried to ruffle his hair, but he leaned away. “Did you enjoy the powwow?” she asked.
    â€œSure, it was okay.” He reached for a magazine that was lying on the table next to the grocery bag. “I think I’d like to try spearfishing.”
    â€œIt’s legal during the ice-fishing season,” Raina recalled.“Maybe this winter we can come back and ask your uncle Gideon to—”
    â€œOscar says the best time for spearing is in the spring.” After a quick scrutiny, he tossed the schedule aside and snatched up another banana. “He says there’s supposed to be a big celebration, traditional ceremonies, stuff like that. And there will be, once all this argument about who’s got the say over how Indians do their fishing is settled. Oscar says it’s a treaty right, and it’s got nothing to do with state laws.”
    â€œThey’re working on some sort of compromise so that the Chippewa can resume the practice peacefully, without—”
    The knock at the door prompted another mirror check, which confirmed Peter’s assessment. The blue did show through the white shorts. “Too late now,” Raina muttered on her way to the door.
    But the man on the other side was not the one she was expecting. This one was wearing a uniform, a sidearm and a badge.
    â€œMrs. Defender?”
    â€œI’m Raina Defender, yes.”
    â€œCletus Sam. I’m a tribal police officer.” He nodded politely, then glanced over her head, into the room. “I’m looking for Peter Defender. I’m carrying a court order for his—”
    Court order? Raina folded her arms, squared her shoulders and took a wide stance in the doorway. “Peter hasn’t done anything. He’s been with me ever since we got here.”
    The officer produced a piece of paper with an official letterhead. “The judge issued an order for him to be taken into the custody of—”
    â€œCustody?” Raina stepped back into the room, instinctively falling back to protect her child as she examined the document with Peter’s name on it, signed by Judge Gerald Half. Thenames registered clearly enough, although the judge’s was not familiar to her, but the rest made no sense.
    She scanned the document again, but her eyes were working faster than her brain. “What does this mean—‘the terms of the Indian Child Welfare Act,’ and this part about biological family members?”
    â€œMay I come in, ma’am?”
    Raina gave a tentative nod. “I don’t have the papers with me, but I assure you that I can prove that I am legally Peter’s mother.”
    â€œAll I know is the boy is an enrolled member of the Pine Lake Band of Chippewa.”
    â€œYes, he is. So was my husband. We adopted Peter when he was a baby, and it was all perfectly leg—”
    â€œAre you Peter?”
    The policeman turned to the table, where the boy sat with the first bite of his second banana still in his mouth, looking from one adult to the other in total confusion. He nodded hesitantly.
    â€œYou wanna