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.