Inside the Art of the Indigenous Prayer Run

It wasn’t the body she’d been looking for, but there it was, lying neatly in the middle of the trail as though placed there. Teyana Viscarra slowed from her run. Her dogs were stopped up ahead, looking back at her in that expectant animal tongue that says: something’s wrong. The first thing she noticed that morning last summer, aside from the fact that he had been a tall man, was his workboots—sturdy things, steel-toed. The boots indicated that the guy was a laborer, working-class. One of her own.