The fire had died down to embers and the wind shifted slightly, blowing the smoke westward out of camp. I shuffled my feet in the dirt as I looked up at the sky. Grandfather knew the names and histories of the stars; he used to tell their stories when I was still too young to understand. Father says he wishes he had listened to them, because now when he looks up to Grandfather’s ghost, he has no idea what it is trying to tell him. When I ask Grandmother if she knows, she smiles and hugs me; she doesn’t say much at all anymore. Mother says her ghost has already left to be with Grandfather, and when I ask what she means, she says that I need to wash the cooking pot and to please stop pestering her. It was a full moon, which meant it was bright enough that I didn’t need to keep the fire burning to see, but Mother says I should do it anyway, because the fire is all that separates us from the wild.