For a split second, I forget that I’m unemployed and single.

And in Alaska to meet a father who may be gravely ill but still doesn’t want me here.

Pushing the sleep mask off my face, I let my eyes adjust, focusing on the faint glow of daylight that creeps around the edge of the curtains. My muscles ache with weariness after yesterday’s long, grueling day of travel. Or maybe it’s this bed. My bed at home is a king—big enough that I can sprawl sideways and never have a limb dangling over the edge—and dressed in memory foam to mold to my body. This one has all the qualities of a Salvation Army cot by comparison.

The pillow’s not much better, hard and lumpy against my face. I must have punched it a dozen times last night, trying to soften it, before giving up.

I paw at the small wooden chair next to me until my fingers grasp my phone.

I groan. It’s not even six a.m. and I’m awake. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised—my internal clock thinks it’s ten.

I also shouldn’t be surprised that my mother has sent three more texts.

Are you awake yet?

How is your father doing? Does he look well enough?

Let me know when you’re awake!

She’s also tried calling.

I’m not ready to handle the Susan Barlow inquisition just yet. I mean, what would I even tell her? He looks healthy, meeting him was brief and awkward at best, and I don’t know why the hell I came?

There are also two messages from Simon.

Be patient with your mother.

Remember, you are a stranger to him, as he is a stranger to you.

“No shit, Simon,” I mutter. I’m sure there’s a deeper meaning behind his words. There always is. Simon is who I need to speak with right now. I’m desperately in need of one of his shrink pep talks. But I’m sure he’ll be prescription-pad-deep with real patients all morning, so my issues will have to wait.

If there’s one good thing about waking up this early, though, it’s that I’ve bought myself a few hours before I have to call home.

I sigh with satisfaction as I open up my Instagram to find more “likes” on my bush plane post than usual, and a dozen new followers. I can always count on Diana to leave a comment riddled with emojis and exclamation points, along with the usual comments from my friends and a few regular followers, the “Love your outfit!”, “Beautiful shot!”, “You’re so pretty!”, “I have that hat, too!” But there are a few other ones, too. People claiming how lucky I am to be in Alaska, how adventurous I am, and how they’ve always wanted to go.

These people—strangers—see a pretty, well-dressed girl embracing life. None of them know the real story—of why I’m here, of why I’m already thinking about going home. They can’t sense my loneliness, or the knot in my stomach. That’s the magic of social media, I guess. But there’s also an odd comfort to hiding behind the illusion. If I stare at myself beside the orange-and-yellow toy plane long enough, and reread the effervescent caption enough times, maybe I’ll start to buy what I’m selling, too.

I spend a few minutes answering people, until basic human needs win out.

Throwing off the heavy layers of blanket, I pull myself out of bed and quickly change into the outfit from yesterday, my skin prickling with gooseflesh from the crisp, cool air. It’s refreshing in comparison to the stifling summer heat and the stale air circulating through the vents back home.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee teases my senses as soon as I crack my bedroom door. To my delight, I find the basket of my clean clothes—folded—sitting by my feet. I push it aside for the moment and pad softly down the hall, that same conflicting mix of anxiety and excitement churning in the pit of my stomach that I had last night.

The living room is empty.

So is the kitchen.

“Hello?” I call out and wait.

Nothing. Not a rustle or a floorboard creak, or a tap running from his en-suite. It’s eerily quiet, the tick-tick-tick of the kitchen wall clock the only sound.

But my dad’s been here, I can see, by the not-quite-full pot of coffee and the used mug sitting next to it, spoon resting inside. I poke my head out the door to see if he’s having a cigarette. An old black Ford truck that’s in only slightly better condition than Agnes’s sits outside, but there’s no sign of him, or so much as the lingering scent of nicotine.

It’s not until I’ve stepped back inside that I notice the sheet of lined paper sitting on the counter, next to the fridge. My name is scrawled across the top in tidy all-cap print. Next to it is a stack of American twenty-dollar bills.

Didn’t know what you’d want to eat. Keys are in the truck. Meyer’s is five miles away. Go east to the end of the road, turn right, then make your 2nd left in town. The rain should hold off for the morning, if you want to go for a walk.

At the bottom of the page, there’s a scribbled-out “W,” as if he started writing his name and then decided against it. But he didn’t replace it with “Dad.”

I’m guessing he’s gone to work. Does he always leave for work this early?

Or was he avoiding me?

On impulse, my fingers graze the ceramic of his used mug. It’s still warm. Evidence that he was here, and not that long ago. He probably bolted the second he heard movement coming from my room, I realize with dismay.