The Car by Gary Paulsen

“No. But he remembers.”
    Terry stared at Samuel, then back at Waylon. “But that was before he was born—how can he remember?”
    Wayne stood. He’d been squatting near the trailer, listening. “He just does. . . .”
    â€œ. . . things don’t die,” Samuel said, his voice soft again, singsongy. “They just change. The earth that was here then is still here, the rocks are still here, the dirt, the sky, the sun—it is still here, all here. So, then, are they—the ones on dead and dying ponies. Their cries are still here, it is just a matter of listening for them, hearing them. . . .”
    And he grew silent.
    This time Terry did not question him but sat, looking as Samuel had looked, out across the prairie, trying to see it, hear it, but he could not.
    Samuel’s breathing grew even and Waylon stood and whispered, “He’s sleeping.” He moved away from Samuel and up to the trailer, motioning for Terry and Wayne to follow him.
    â€œLet’s clean the place up,” Waylon said. “And cook some food for him. It doesn’t look like he’s eaten in a long time.”
    So while Samuel slept they cleaned the trailer—Terry thought it should have been hosed out—washed dishes, mopped the floors, and wiped everything down, working around the pictures.
    When they finished, Terry thought it still looked pretty rough but was glad to stop. Waylon had found cans of spaghetti and was heating up a big pot of it, mixing in some stewed tomatoes he’d brought from the store, and he left it simmering while they went outside to take a break.
    Samuel was still sleeping soundly; the afternoon sun coming back over the trailer put him in the cool shade of the wall, and the three of them went out away from the trailer and sat in the grass, relaxing.
    Waylon had also made coffee—he seemed to live on coffee—and he and Wayne sipped it while they sat. Terry poked at the dirt with a stick.
    â€œI don’t get it,” he finally said.
    â€œWhich part don’t you get?” Waylon asked.
    â€œWell, any of it. I don’t know why we’re here, why we’re talking to this crazy old man. . . .”
    â€œHe’s not crazy,” Waylon said, his voice sharpening. “Not even a little bit.”
    â€œBut he talks about things like they just happened, and he couldn’t know all that, all that he talks about.”
    â€œHe does know it though.” Wayne shrugged. “I was like you when I came—didn’t believe. But he’s right. He sees things, knows things, hears things. And if you listen to him you can learn.”
    â€œIs that why we’re here—to listen to him?”
    â€œExactly.” Waylon nodded. “That’s it exactly. He’s like . . . like a living book. He’ll tell you stuff that hasn’t been written, will never be written, but you can learn from it. We came here back in seventy-three—twenty years ago. Came from the ’Nam. Came from all that. Mean and hard and looking for something, some way to live. They told us about him then, and we came.”
    â€œWho told you?” Terry looked across to Samuel, who was not moving, seemed impossibly small in the recliner.
    â€œPeople. People who trucked and came here and learned from him. That’s why we brought you—brought ourselves back.”
    â€œHow did you know he was still alive?”
    â€œWe didn’t. But if he’d died we would have heard. Somebody would have said.”
    â€œHere we are.” Terry sighed. “I haven’t the slightest idea
where
we are, but here we are. . . .”
    â€œIt’s like this,” Wayne said. “Be honest. Do you know more now than when we came—know more about America?”
    Terry thought about what he’d learned, what Samuel had said. “Well, yes. I do. About the Sioux