In Shoshone, there's a saying. It's a long one, and it doesn't have an English equivalent, so bear with me.

Sutummu tukummuinna. It means, I don't speak your language, and you don't speak mine. But I still understand you. I don't need to walk in your footsteps if I can see the footprints you left behind.

The shaman helps you figure it out. I already know what I'm going to be."

I prodded him in the ribs. He couldn't just leave me hanging like that.

"A speech therapist." he said.

The whole world could have stopped. I wouldn't have noticed.

Rafael gave me an unusually stoic look. "I'm going to get your voice back someday," he said. "I though that was obvious.

Sometimes an adventure is a mundane thing. A trip to the shore with your best friend. Learning you can laugh in unearthly ways.

He broke away from my mouth and trailed his lips down the front of my throat. I felt his lips close around my scars. He kissed away their ugliness. His lips parted in tingling butterfly kisses that drained the strength from my knees. I realized he was mouthing words against my skin.

Not words. Just one word.

Mine.

It struck me as kind of crazy, kind of amazing, that one person could make me feel so serene just by being.

The work of art is a scream of freedom.