But most importantly, how does this girl from Western Alaska know my Instagram handle?

“There was a link at the bottom of your email,” Agnes explains, likely able to read the confusion on my face. “I was curious, so I clicked on it and found your website. I swear, Mabel’s scoured every last corner of it.”

“Ah. Right.” My automated signature. I completely forgot about that. Now it makes sense.

“So, you took a cab to the river today?” Mabel asks.

“Uh . . . yeah.” It takes a moment to connect the dots. I posted a few pictures from earlier, and decided to ignore Diana’s captioning advice and talk about my day in Bangor, about the friendly cabbie whose name isn’t really Michael, with the six kids and one on the way, and how he uses the river to see them. It just seemed more interesting and way more honest.

I posted those maybe an hour ago, but I guess even all the way up here in the middle of nowhere, teenagers are linked to their phones.

“Mabel, why don’t you go wash up for dinner and then pull out that chair from my room.” Agnes begins carving the chicken with expert strokes of her knife, setting the freshly cut meat onto a small white platter.

Mabel wanders over and leans in to inspect the chicken as her mother just did. She’s taller than Agnes by at least three inches, and dressed in the same type of department-store-brand budget jeans. “So did I pick a good one?”

Agnes tugs at the left leg. The meat begins to separate, and clear juices dribble over the golden skin. “You did. Though I would have liked a bit more fat on its thighs.”

“He was the slowest one of them! I barely had to run to catch him!”

“You caught our dinner?” I blurt out.

Mabel grins at me. “Barry let me bring one home this week, for helping out on the farm.”

“Is that the farm down the road? I think I saw it when I went for a run today.”

“The Whittamores,” Agnes confirms. “It’s pretty famous. No one’s been as successful at farming around here as Barry and Dora. They grew over fifty thousand pounds of vegetables last year. And who knows how many eggs in that underground chicken coop of theirs. We fly their produce to a lot of the villages.”

“I was surprised to see it,” I admit. “My mom’s big into growing things and she wasn’t ever able to do it.”

“The season’s longer and warmer now than it was twenty-four years ago. But, still, it’s a lot of work to grow anything around here. Like the Whittamores do, anyway,” Agnes murmurs. “Barry’s out there thawing and tilling and prepping the soil for two years before he can plant anything in the ground.”

“Yeah, he puts up these huge tunnels so we can start seeding things in February. There’s no wind or snow, and it’s way warmer in there.”

Agnes chuckles. “That’s where I find her most days after school, in the winter. That or in their root cellar.”

“Oh. That’s right!” Mabel exclaims, as if she’s just remembered something important. “Barry said he saw you this morning. You were in bright pink, tearing down the road.”

At least he didn’t say I was naked. “That was me. Getting eaten alive by mosquitoes,” I add, giving my arm a scratch where an itch suddenly springs.

Mabel’s sweet face scrunches up. “The mosquitoes and no--see-ums will get you good.”

“The no-see-ums?”

“Yeah. They’re bad this year. Make sure you wear jeans and a hoodie when you go out, and you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” When my hoodie gets here from Anchorage, that is.

“How was it at the farm today, anyway?” Agnes asks.

“Same ol’. Kinda boring.”

“Remember how lucky you are. There are plenty of people around here who’d collect eggs and vegetables in exchange for fresh produce and the occasional chicken.”

“I’ll bet they’d rather do it for cash,” Mabel mutters.

“When you’re older, I’m sure he’ll pay you with real money. Unless you keep showing up whenever you feel like it. In that case, he might not hire you at all,” Agnes scolds, in that gentle way of hers.

How old is Mabel exactly, that this farmer doesn’t feel comfortable paying her in cash?

Mabel waves her mother’s worries off with an annoyed frown. “Barry doesn’t care what time I come in. And besides, the hens lay twice as many eggs when I’m around. I’m his chicken whisperer.” She gives me a toothy grin and then stretches to her tiptoes to pull out a bag of chips from the cupboard.

Agnes promptly plucks the bag from her grasp and tosses it back into the cupboard. “We’re eating dinner soon, Chicken Whisperer. Go on and get washed up.”

With a groan, Mabel retreats down the hall, leaving me staring after her.

“She does have a lot of energy.”

“It’s something, trying to keep her busy enough to burn it all off, especially during the summer break. I’m so thankful to Barry for giving her something to do.” Agnes pauses and then says more quietly, “She doesn’t know about Wren yet. I’m going to tell her soon. I just . . . He asked me to wait.”

He also asked her not to tell me or Jonah, but she didn’t stick to that request, I note.