The plane fades into the distance and once again I’m completely alone. Just me and a million blood-sucking mosquitoes.
Up ahead is a cluster of shed-like buildings surrounded by a low, spindly hedge. They’re all shapes and sizes, all with ruby-red roofs. A few look like houses, but others look like barns. But for what? My mom insisted that nothing can grow in this climate. As I get closer, I see the clear structures set up behind the buildings. They’re definitely greenhouses. There are pickup trucks and tractors, and garden patches scattered throughout, with rows of vegetation. Some are covered with white plastic, others with white semicircular hoops lining them.
And beyond are fields of vegetables. Rows upon rows of heads of lettuce and tall stocks of green onions, and chartreuse carrot fronds, and things I can’t discern from here. Two people toil around a lemon-yellow barrel, hoses in hand.
There is life out here after all.
And things to grow. Either the soil has changed drastically in twenty-four years or my mother was wrong about the barren wasteland. Or maybe she gave up on growing things in Alaska before ever trying.
A sharp pinch pricks me and, quick as a swatter, my hand flies up to slap against my neck. I cringe as three squashed mosquitoes cling to my hand and then take off at a clipped pace, desperate for sanctuary from the bugs and a long, hot shower.
And then I guess I’ll have to wait until someone gives a damn that I’m here and checks in on me.
What are the chances that a cop would pull me over around here, anyway?
I consider this as I peer out the kitchen window at my dad’s pickup, the dull ache behind my eyes from lack of caffeine quickly growing to a gnawing throb. I felt it coming a half hour ago and attempted to choke down a mug of black coffee out of desperation. I gave up after three sips and then spent ten minutes scrubbing the bitter taste out of my mouth with my toothbrush, unable to swallow any more.
To make matters worse, my stomach is now growling in protest and my heart is being tested by the raw reality that I am one right turn, one left turn—or five miles, per the note—from civilization and I’ve been all but abandoned by my father.
Agnes was wrong. Today is not better.
I check my Uber app. No cars available in my area.
With gritted teeth, I Google the number to Wild Alaska’s main line. Because, of course, my dad didn’t think to leave me his contact number.
Agnes answers on the third ring.
“It’s Calla.”
“Oh, good morning. How was your sleep?”
“Fine. Is my dad there?”
“Uh . . . no. He took off a little while ago, on his way up to Barrow to check on things. Won’t be back until this afternoon.” There’s a pause. “He said he left you the truck, though, so you could go into town.”
“I don’t have my license.”
“Oh.” I can almost see the deep frown lines in her forehead. “So you’re stuck there.”
“Pretty much. With nothing to eat.” I don’t bother hiding the irritation from my voice.
“Okay. Well, let’s see . . .” I hear papers shuffling in the background. “Sharon can cover for me while I drive you in.”
“Perfect.”
“She’ll be in at noon.”
“Noon?” I don’t know who Sharon is, but I can do math, and noon means four o’clock Toronto time.
I’ll be dead by then.
“Oh, wait, you know what? Jonah has a late start today. He’ll drive you into town.”
“Jonah?” I feel my face twist in disgust. She’s got to be kidding me.
“Is his truck still in the driveway?”
My disgust morphs to suspicion. “What do you mean ‘in the driveway’?”
“Next door.”
I dart to the window to spy the neighboring house maybe fifty feet away. It’s another simple and quiet modular home, clad in butter-yellow siding that could use a power wash. My eyebrows pop. “Jonah lives next door?”
“Is he still there?”
“There’s a forest-green SUV parked out front.” But no signs of life, otherwise.
“Okay, good. Run on over and ask him to take you to Meyer’s.”
This keeps getting better by the minute.
“He doesn’t want to drive me anywhere,” I grumble. And the absolute last thing I want to do is ask him for a favor.
“He’ll drive you.” She sounds confident. I note, though, that she doesn’t argue about his lack of desire.
“And then what? Abandon me there? You know he took that tiny plane yesterday on purpose, don’t you?”
There’s a long pause. “Jonah likes to play little games, sometimes. Keeps himself from getting bored.” Agnes’s soft chuckle fills my ear. “But he’s a teddy bear. And don’t worry, I’ve already talked to Billy. He’s putting your suitcases on the Caravan flying in this afternoon.”
I heave a sigh of relief. Finally, some good news.
“Ask Jonah for a ride into town. It’d be good for you two to get along. He and your dad, they’re close. And don’t be afraid to put him in his place. He can get as well as he gives.”
I gaze warily across the lawn again.
“Or wait until I can come get you at noon. Up to you.”
Ask the angry yeti for help or starve to death. The latter may be less painful.
“Oh, and you and Wren are coming for dinner tonight. I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure.” If I survive that long.
Before I can think too much about it, I stuff the cash my dad left into my purse, slip on my wedge heels, grab my sunglasses, and march out the door. I’m dressed smartly in jeans and a fitted lightweight navy sweater, yet the mosquitoes swarm me all the same, forcing me into a mad rush past the truck and through the wet grass. My feet sink into the marshy ground with each step and by the time I’ve made it to the small wooden porch off the front of the house, my toes are soaked and uncomfortable, the soles of my shoes squishy and most certainly ruined. Just another reminder that I don’t have my rain boots thanks to the jackass I’m about to ask for help from.
I struggle to remove the sour look from my face as I rap my knuckles against the solid white door.
After a good ten seconds, I knock harder.
“Hold on a second!” that gruff voice calls out. Heavy footfalls sound and then a moment later the door is yanked open, and Jonah fills the doorway, halfway through sliding his shirt down over his stomach.
I flounder for a moment.
Jonah isn’t much older than I am, I realize, now that he’s not disguised behind a ball cap and sunglasses. Early thirties, maybe, with only the faintest of lines creasing his brow. His hair hangs long, damp, and scraggly to his jawline, the ends tattered as if not touched by a pair of scissors in years.
He’s not as bulky as his jacket made him look yesterday, either. Or rather, he’s big but he’s surprisingly fit, as just made evident by the glimpse I caught of a ribbed torso before his black shirt hid the pleasant sight away.
But it’s his eyes that are the most jarring to me. They are piercing in their hard gaze, but his irises are the lightest, prettiest shade of ice blue I’ve ever seen on a man.
Beneath all that unkempt hair, Jonah is actually attractive.
“Calla!”
I startle.
“Did you need something?” he asks slowly, in an irritated way; a way that tells me I missed his words the first time, too busy gawking at him.
Too bad those pretty eyes come with that callous tongue.
I clear my voice. “I need you to take me into town.”
His gaze flickers toward my dad’s house. “What’s wrong with Wren’s truck?”
“Nothing. But I don’t have my license.”
His bushy brows pop. “You’re kidding me. You’re how old and you don’t have your
license?”
“I’ve never needed it,” I say defensively.
A slow, knowing smirk touches his lips. “You get everyone else to drive you around, don’t you?”
“No! I live in a city with public transit. Do you know what that is?” I snap, my temper flaring instantly. Something that doesn’t normally happen with strangers. Sure, when I do leave Toronto, it’s at the mercy of someone else—my mom or Simon, Diana, or a slew of other friends who have cars—but there’s nothing wrong with that. And it’s beside the point, anyway.
I knew coming to Jonah was a mistake. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll drive myself. Thanks so much.” Spinning on my heels, I march down the steps and across the lawn, heading straight for my dad’s truck. I yank the door shut behind me and spend a few moments in a murderous rage, my hands flailing about wildly, smacking the glass, the dashboard, and myself, killing the small horde of mosquitoes that followed me inside.
Not until I’m sure every last one is squashed do I let myself settle back into the driver’s seat with a huff of grim satisfaction, fingers curling around the bottom of the steering wheel.
It smells like tobacco in here. There’s no evidence—no butts in a cup, no empty cardboard cast aside, not even that thin plastic strip that seals a fresh pack—but I can smell the cigarettes all the same, the smoke permeated into the worn fabric of the seats.
The keys are right where my dad said they’d be, sitting in the ignition, waiting for me or anyone else to hop in and drive away. The threat of “anyone else” is clearly low.
I could drive into town. It’s two turns, his note said. An empty dirt road that probably leads into a paved one. A few stop signs. Some lights. Green means go, red means stop. It’s not rocket science, and I’ve been a passenger enough that I can figure this out.
“Crap.” I eye the gear stick jutting out of the floor with dismay. It’s a standard transmission. That is something I can’t figure out, no matter how many times I’ve ridden shotgun.
I let my head fall back as a loud groan escapes my lips. All this open space around me and I’m trapped.
The passenger-side door opens. Jonah slings his arm over the top. “Why do you need me to drive you into town?” His tone is still gruff, but less confrontational.
“Because there’s nothing to eat in that house.”
“Nothing at all.” He smirks.
“Nothing,” I snap, more from frustration than anything else. “Spoiled milk and ketchup. My dad left money and a note, and took off before I was even awake. And Agnes can’t come until noon. My head is throbbing because I haven’t had a coffee yet and I’m starving.” And in an increasingly foul mood.
“That’s not at all dramatic,” Jonah mumbles, glancing at his watch, and then to the east, where a plane descends. He heaves a sigh. “Learn how to ask next time.”
“I did ask.”
“No, that was closer to a demand, and I don’t respond well to those.”
I glare at him, as I mentally replay my exact words. I asked, didn’t I? Maybe not.
“Well?” Those icy blue eyes widen. “I don’t have a lot of time. And you better make it quick because I’ve got a full day of flying if the weather cooperates.” He slams the door and begins trudging back across the road.
With equal amounts of relief and trepidation, I hop out and follow him all the way to his SUV—a boxy, older-model forest-green Ford Escape that’s missing the tailgate tire but is in otherwise decent condition.
With the same surprisingly lithe, sleek movements that I noticed yesterday, he retrieves that black baseball cap from the backseat, the one from yesterday with the letters USAF scrawled across the front in white. With one hand holding his long, scraggly hair back, he slides it onto his head. And then he gets behind the steering wheel.
I climb into the passenger seat, inhaling the faint scent of spearmint gum as he adjusts the vents and turns a dial for the heat on the console, bringing a small gust of warmth into the chilly, dated interior. How old is Jonah’s car, anyway? I can’t remember the last time I was in a car that had a handle on the door to crank the window.
A mosquito floats in front of my face. “Are they always this bad?” I clap my hands together to squash it in my palm.
“They don’t bother me.”
“They ate me alive this morning.”
“Maybe try putting on clothes next time you go running.”
My mouth drops open. “There’s nothing wrong with what I run in.” Granted, my shorts are short and snug, for comfort. So is the tank top. And the outfit works better along city streets that aren’t infested with bugs, so I guess I can see his point. Not that I’ll ever admit that to him. And wait a minute . . . “Were you spying on me?”
He snorts. “I happened to look out the window to see you running up the driveway in clothes that leave nothing to the imagination, flailing your hands like a madwoman.” He throws his SUV into drive and we coast along the bumpy driveway in loaded silence, my cheeks burning.
“Thanks for driving me,” I finally offer. He might not be thrilled about it, but at least he is helping me.
I get only a small grunt in response. And then, “Why haven’t you had a coffee yet? Wren always makes a full pot and leaves it on. You couldn’t just pour yourself a cup?”
Why does everything out of his mouth sound like a direct assault? “I need soy milk.”
“Of course you do,” he mutters.
I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I’m guessing it’s not flattering.
We ride the rest of the way into town in silence.
Bangor, town of sixty-five hundred and the largest community in Western Alaska, is a shithole.
At least, that’s my first impression.
I bite my tongue against the urge to say as much, as we drive along a snaking main road, passing intersections with street signs for more rural roads—some gravel, others with asphalt that’s so badly cracked, they’d have been better off leaving it unpaved.
Single- and double-story buildings are scattered along either side. They remind me of the ones from the airport, rectangular and clad in siding, topped with metal sheets. Some are drab creams and browns; others are weathered peacock blues and emerald greens. Where there are windows, they’re disproportionately small. Meanwhile some have no windows at all. And all of them are connected by silver pipes that run along the grassy ground, from one property to the next.
“Is this an industrial area?”
“Nope.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. Jonah’s second favorite word, behind “yup.”
We pass by one property that has a playground set erected in the yard. Two young children dangle from monkey bars as a husky sits on its haunches, looking on, no parents in sight. Many of these buildings are family homes, I realize, now noticing the bicycles lying on lawns and baseball bats propped against walls, and a lopsided trampoline. Homes with not a shred of curb appeal. No leading walkways or pleasing gardens, no welcoming front entrance. Only scraggly shrubs and dust-covered ATVs, and unsightly cylindrical tanks.
It’s because we’re on the outskirts, I convince myself. As Jonah takes me farther into this town in the middle of nowhere—with no roads connecting it to the rest of Alaska—we’ll come across a visage that I’m more familiar with. Actual neighborhoods with brick houses and driveways lined with daylilies and rosebushes. A main street with some degree of city planning, with proper storefronts and decorative streetlamps and people dressed in something other than value-brand jeans and plain cotton shirts.
Areas where there aren’t spray-painted Dumpsters on every corner like the one we just passed, decorated with rainbows and suns and “Bangor is the Best” messages. Meanwhile, the streets are littered with debris that’s been dragged through the weedy grass by animals.
The farther in we drive, though, the less conf
ident I become.
Thank you, Mother, for getting us the hell out of here when you did.
There aren’t even sidewalks along the streets. Everywhere I look, I see people walking along the ditch at an unhurried pace. Some carry brown paper grocery bags. Most don rubber boots or hiking-type shoes, and seem unconcerned about stepping in muddy puddles or the spots of dirt spattering their pants.
They’re of all ages, some as young as ten or eleven, one an elderly Alaska Native man whose limp is so pronounced, he should be walking with a cane. “He’s going to fall and hurt himself,” I murmur, more to myself, not expecting a response from Jonah, beyond maybe a grunt.
“Yupik people are tough. That man probably walks three miles every day.”
I frown. “What people?”
“Yupik. Some are Athabascan, or Aleut.” Jonah makes a left turn. “The villages that we fly into are mostly Yupik communities.”
“Is that what Agnes is?”
“Yup. She grew up in a village up the river. Her mom and brothers are still there, living a subsistence lifestyle.” He adds quickly, perhaps after seeing my frown, “They live off the land.”
“Oh! So, sort of like farm-to-table?” Unlike all the other exchanges I’ve had with Jonah, I feel like I’m getting useful information about Western Alaska.
“Sure. If you want to compare an entire culture’s way of life to the latest culinary trend . . .” he murmurs dryly.
I study the faces of people as we pass them. About half of them are Alaska Natives, while the other half are Caucasian, except for the one East Indian who’s standing next to a battered Tahoma with its hood propped up and steam swirling from its engine.
“What are those people doing?” I point to three men in their twenties trudging along the road, two supporting either end of a mattress, the third carrying an awkward-looking box. A woman walks about ten feet ahead with a lamp in one hand and a toddler perched on her hip.
“My guess would be moving.”
“By foot?”