Everyone in Baawitigong remembered where they were the night Neebin was murdered.
Except for her son.
It happened the night of the ceremony celebrating the beginning of the traditional Manoomin harvest. A full Ricing Moon had bathed the village in silver light, and the sound of drums, dancing, and laughter had filled the crisp and cloudless sky. Like many other seventeen-year-old boys, Chibenashi had left the harvest festival early with his friends, partied a little too hard, and passed out. When he woke up, his mother was gone, and so was his memory of the night.
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