Yellow Line [antikvár]

Before I start Where I come from, kids are in two groups. White kids on one side, Indians on the other side. The other side of the field, the room, the street, the washrooms - everywhere. We're on one side and they're on the other. They live on one side of the Forks River bridge, and we live on the other 5 side. They hang out in their village, and we hang out in ours. In the city, Indians are called First Nations; out here they've always been called Indians, and we don't change things like that in a hurry. Neither village is very special. Ours is bigger than theirs, 10 but altogether there are less than 500 people. Highway 14 passes through. Fifteen minutes to the west is a small port on the ocean. An hour and a half or so to the east is the city. It has the police station, the high school, a post office, a big supermarket and even a McDonald's. It's not really a city, 15 just a small town, but it's better than our dump of a village. Nobody in the city cares about our village. The fact is, hardly anyone even knows that it exists. When Indian kids are on our side of the bridge, they hang out at the gas station. White kids hang out just up the 20 road and on the other side of Ruby's store. They walk on one side of the road, we walk on the other. It's as if there's