Page 13 of Returning to Pine Ridge
“This is where I organize the magic,” I correct. “The real magic happens in the booth or in people’s living rooms or on park benches.” I glance at him. “Wherever people feel safe enough to share their stories.”
He catches that, the reference to the party. His cheeks flush slightly, and he looks away, but not before he smiles.
“Okay, so what do you need me to do?” he asks.
I pull up a chair next to mine. The space is tight, but usually it’s just me here, so it’s not a problem. With two of us, it’s definitely a lot cozier. Atlas takes a seat, our shoulders almost touching.
“I need to go through these recordings, listen to them, add metadata—names, dates, topics, that kind of thing. It’s tedious but necessary. And honestly, it’s nice to have someone else here. Makes it less lonely.”
We settle into the work. I start a recording—an older woman talking about opening the first restaurant in Pine Ridge in 1987. Her voice is warm, nostalgic. Atlas listens intently, taking notes on the form I’ve created. His handwriting is neat, precise. Artistic, even.
“She has such a clear memory of everything,” he says when it ends. “The colors, the smells, the people. It’s like she’s right back there.”
“That’s what I love about this work,” I say. “People’s memories are so specific. So vivid. It’s like stepping into their world for a moment.”
We work through several more recordings. A man talking about building his house by hand, the mistakes he made, the pride he felt when it was finished. A teacher discussing the evolution of Pine Ridge High School over three decades. Awoman recounting her wedding day with such detail and joy that Atlas laughs out loud.
“She’s so happy,” he says. “Even just talking about it decades later, she’s so happy.”
“She’s in love.”
Our eyes meet for a moment; the charge between us kicks up my pulse. He looks away first, but he’s smiling.
We continue working, but the energy has shifted. There’s an awareness between us now. When our hands brush reaching for the same file, neither of us pulls away immediately. When I lean over, I let my shoulder linger against his.
Just testing his reaction. The uptick in his breathing tells me he’s as affected by me as I am by him.
“This one’s interesting,” I say, queuing up another recording. “It’s a man talking about his first day working at the hardware store. I think it might be your father, actually.”
Atlas leans in closer to listen. I can smell his shampoo—a clean and citrusy scent. I have to force myself to focus on the recording.
The voice fills the small room, talking about being seventeen and terrified of messing up. Talking about learning from his own father. Talking about the pride he felt the first time he helped a customer solve a problem.
“That’s Dad,” Atlas confirms, his voice soft.
“This was recorded about ten years ago, but he was remembering being seventeen.”
“He never told me this stuff. About how nervous he was starting out.”
“People don’t usually tell their kids those things,” I say. “They show them the confident version. The version that’s figured it out.”
Atlas is quiet for a moment. “Is that what I’m doing? Showing everyone the confident version?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stands up and walks over to the shelves, where he runs his finger along the spines of the books. The movement creates distance between us, and I feel the loss immediately.
“I think I’ve been doing it for so long, I forgot there was another version,” he says finally.
I stand up too, drawn toward him like a magnet. The room suddenly feels even smaller, more intimate, the books surrounding us creating a world that’s just ours.
“You could record a message,” I suggest. “If you wanted—just for yourself, for your parents, or to hear your own voice telling the truth.”
He turns to look at me. “I want to. But I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of saying it out loud. Of making it real.”
