Small-time Arizona filmmaker Jerome Doggman has a plan: lure a desert-dwelling fundamentalist sect into one of his scathing exposes on religion. Things go awry when Dogg stumbles across nefarious doings and winds up murdered...
But, surprise! - Dogg comes back to life in the body of the subject of his expose- a fundamentalist teenage boy. Vehemently anti-religious in his previous existence, Dogg must now endure life as the subject of his own contempt.
To make things worse, he's smitten with the teenage boy's older sister, Florence, who cares for her brother with strained, loving patience as he kicks and screams against the austere religious world he finds himself bound to. Meanwhile, Dogg's elusive memories return to him in confounding pieces, and the men who killed him the first time slowly sense something in the wind-that Dogg isn't really dead.
Taking place along the Ajo Highway, which runs through the Tohono O'odham Indian Nation of southern Arizona, this allegorical tale of Dogg's extraordinary journey explores themes of empathy and atonement, all through the mystifying world of reincarnation. Under an allusive desert moon, the saguaro cactus dance, and the Thunderbirds hover above, as Dogg's need to remember who he was in his previous life takes on real urgency-His killers are closing in, and they want Dogg dead again.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A love spanning two cultures...
I have lived on my family's homestead on the prairie all my nineteen years. It is all I have ever known, and it is Indian territory. My father told us that the Indians are savage, ruthless killers akin to wild animals. "They are not human," he said. But I did not feel that way at all.
A hidden warrior...
I have kept a a secret from my family since I was a little girl. One they cannot know. I made a friend at the creek one afternoon many years ago. An Indian. He was an Oglala Lakota boy who called himself Wakíŋyaŋ Lúta. Red Thunder. But after that chance encounter, he returned to his people. I had never expected to see him again, but one day, I did: as a virile young man, wounded and on the edge of death. And the feelings of friendship I had shared with him blossomed into something more...
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