As the clock ticked down to zero -- midnight -- on Indigenous Peoples Day, I dreamt that my brother and I shared a multi-story house somewhere out on the Great Plain. It was night in the dream as well, and suddenly a band of indigenous braves attacked the house in force, attempting to breech the doors and windows. Kevin and I succeeded in fighting them off, but not without violence. We pored scalding hot water on their hands and their heads when they broke the plane of a window, for example.
It did not feel like a victory, just a respite before they attacked again, more successfully.