The Stronghold

Inspired by true events.

Lava Beds, California — 1873

The baby won’t stop crying.

The sound’s small—just wet hiccups between clenched gums—but in the stronghold, even a breath feels like it echoes too loud.

I cover his mouth with the flat of my hand, gently, gently. Not to hurt—just to hush. His skin is hot. Fevered. He’s hungry again. So are we all.

I can feel the silence tighten around us like a snare.

There’s movement beyond the stone wall—just one level above us in the rocks. Boots. Careless voices. Metal on rock. A white man’s cough.

I freeze.

So does everyone else in the cave.

Seven of us crammed into this little crevice, backs pressed to the black walls. My older boy, Tamuk, is already holding his brother to his chest, like I taught him. Like his father did before the rifles took him.

I don’t pray. Not anymore. But I listen.

Outside, the boots move on.

We live another hour.