I have lived sixteen summers, and in all that time, the sea has never stopped whispering questions. Its breath shapes the land, carving the sand beneath my feet, just as time shapes our people. I am Naya of the Patuxet village—daughter of Wusamequin, a respected gatherer of sweetgrass and skins, and granddaughter of Wampanoag protectors stretching farther back than memory can hold. One morning, while collecting quahog shells with my little brother Toma, we saw the behemoth rising from the horizon like a wounded whale carrying trees upon its back—towering sticks with woven skins snapping wildly against the wind. It groaned as waves struck its belly, creeping closer to our shores without permission.