The migration of the Giants started around his birthday; Mid September. They would make their trek from the Northwest Territories crooked through Saskatchewan, the Dakotas and all the way past Texas, settling in Tamaulipas. Otis would take the month off work each year and join them on their return home. They would nod at Otis when he arrived at the mouth of their cave, never entering the living space, but none would talk to him. Years it took for them to even acknowledge that he was not mocking them, nor policing them, and Otis was sure they would always distrust him a little. So he would sit at the mouth, walking stick in hand, his own backpack filled. And a single book. He vowed to read Moby Dick. Months of ordering version off Amazon, foraging through bookstores until he found one that was light enough to carry. On the flight to Yellowknife, in the din of the Twin Otter, he found he grew to relate to Ahab and his quest, Otis, too, never understood why he made this journey, only that it felt like the one thing in his life that gave him purpose. Close to the end of the fourth day, they were crossing into Manitoba, the legs of the Giants throwing the wind around like tiny storms, tossed his hat off and it danced along a spit of a pond, and sat in the centre as if it lived there. It was here the pack chose to set up camp, so too, did Otis. The tent was quick, he unrolled his sleeping bag, and looked out, again, at his cap. It had sunk. He felt like part of his life was fading away. He could already feel the warmth of the bonfire the Giants created, they sat around in a circle, but for a space. A space with a tiny chair, and with the red of the flames highlighting the seat he saw his hat. One of them had rescued it from the pond. He was being invited in. Upon sitting on the delicate seat of branches he was handed a piece of Mammoth. He belonged. He was Otis Paquette, and he walked with Giants.