The bridge stretches out before me like a judgment, not a path, but a cast in rust and bone. It doesn’t lead anywhere I can see, only into a mist that refuses to clarify, like a memory you almost remember but can’t quite hold. Iron girders twist skyward like the ribs of some great beast too proud to rot, its carcass suspended between two worlds: one I’ve outlived, and one I haven’t yet earned.
I watch the water beneath it. Not moving,but watching back. It hums low. Something’s down there. Not a creature, but a presence. Not a threat, but a truth: cross me wrong, and you will not return.
And I know the cost. If I fall, it’s not just my life that drowns, it’s the archive, the satchel, the rifle Barley pressed into my hands. The path east isn’t just about survival. It’s about retrieval. Redemption. Reclamation.
So I don’t walk. Not yet. I stand.
In this stillness, I feel it: the weight of choices I haven't made, the silence before covenant, the tension before the blade meets the wheat. The bridge isn’t asking for a traveler. It’s asking for an answer. What are you willing to become on the other side?
Louisiana may lie beyond that horizon, but this… this is a trial of passage. A test of essence. This bridge is not structure—it is spirit, stretched thin across the unknown, demanding I step not with feet, but with faith.
And still, I remain. Listening. Not for safety—but for signal.
—Big Chief
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