“I think my butt’s frozen,” I joke, though the sleek black ski pants I’m wearing coupled with thermal pants offer decent protection.

“How about your feet?”

I tap the toes of my new white winter boots—bunny boots, they’re called—another gift from Agnes and apparently, a must-have for any Alaskan, good for up to minus sixty degrees Fahrenheit. “Sweaty.” It’s not cold enough to be busting out the military-grade gear, but I wanted to test them.

“Good.” She crouches in front of my father’s grave, her wise, near-black eyes resting on the cross for a long, silent moment. She nods toward the small plane that I placed next to the cross when I arrived. “That’s cute.”

“It reminded me of Veronica. I thought he might like it.” I found it online and painted my father’s name and dates of life on its belly.

“Yes. I think he would.” She tucks the silk flowers on the other side, fussing with them until they stay upright. “Is that Jonah’s snow machine I saw parked out there?”

My gaze darts to the yellow-and-black Ski-Doo I left sitting in the field, outside the back fence. “Yeah. He taught me how to drive it, so I can get around town on my own.”

“Look at you.” She grins, flashing those slightly crooked teeth, the color of bone china. “You’ll be fitting in here in no time.”

If you’d asked me a year ago—hell, even six months ago—what I’d be doing on New Year’s Day, racing around snowy plains of Western Alaska by myself would never have been invited as an option. “It’s a lot more fun than I expected,” I admit. “And fast.” I had to slow down, the cold wind against my exposed cheeks biting.

“They can be. You best stay off the river,” she warns.

“I already got the stern lecture from Jonah.” We spent yesterday afternoon out along the Kuskokwim, where he showed me the trail markers to follow, and where the body of a man who went “water skipping” last November—an entirely idiotic concept I don’t understand—was fished out with ropes and hooks by Search and Rescue.

“Jonah worries a lot about everyone but himself.” She braces her hands on her knees and eases to her feet slowly. “Where is he today, anyway?”

“Good question. He took off before lunch, saying he had to drop off some supplies at a village.”

A frown furrows her round face.

“Is that normal, to be doing supply deliveries on a holiday?”

She squints as she searches the bright blue sky. The sun will set at a quarter to five tonight, which is on par with Toronto, but it didn’t rise until almost eleven. These long, dark mornings are a reality that will take some getting used to. I foresee myself sleeping in through the winter months.

“Who can say what’s normal with that one? But I’m sure whatever it is, he had good reason.” She offers me a reassuring smile. “What do you have planned for dinner tonight?”

“I think there’s leftover soup?” I say half-heartedly, knowing Jonah will argue that soup is not dinner, and that Agnes is about to extend an invitation to her house, as she has every night since I arrived. We’ve fallen back into the same rhythm that steered us in those last weeks with my father—where we’d gather at one house or another, as any conventional family might.

“I have a moose roast in the oven, if you two feel like moseying on over later. You’ll like it. Tastes like beef,” she promises. “It’s Jonah’s favorite.”

“What are we going to do when we’re not living across the road from you anymore, Agnes? How are we going to survive? Does this mean I’ll have to learn to cook?”

It’s a joke, but I don’t miss the fleeting sorrow that flashes through Agnes’s eyes before it’s gone, replaced by something else, something indecipherable. She brushes at the dusting of snow that has settled atop my father’s cross. “You two will do fine, as long as you remember you’re in this together.”

“I think we’ve done pretty well at that so far. And we’ve been through a lot.” Since the day I found out that my father would be refusing treatment for his terminal cancer, Jonah and I have stayed side by side to face the pain, the heartache, the tough decisions, each trusting the other for support. He has been my rock—steadfast and unfailing.

“Yes …” Agnes hesitates, her gaze wandering to the distance.

I sense a “but.” Agnes has never been one to deliver the “but,” always the unobtrusive listener, the kind, supportive voice who keeps her opinions to herself. That one seems to be dangling off the tip of her tongue sets off alarm bells.

“You two are a good match for each other. Wren saw it right away.”

“Really?” I grin, despite her ominous tone. My dad had hinted at the idea of Jonah and me getting together. He did it in his subtle way, never pushing. At the time, Jonah and I were at each other’s throats.

“Sure, he did. We both did, or at least hoped. And right now, this must all feel like a whirlwind. Jonah, surprising you in Toronto; you, racing back here to be with him. So exciting and fresh and new. All these possibilities and big plans.” Her easy smile holds for another second before it fades as quickly as it came. “But eventually, the days will start to feel longer, quieter. You may find yourself not so eager about what’s ahead for you.”

“So, basically like my life before coming here?” I let out a weak chuckle. My months in Toronto after losing my father to death and Jonah to distance weren’t robust or inspiring. I spent much of it trying to heal—falling back into a mindless but well-worn routine of gym sessions and shopping, of bar nights with friends that suddenly felt hollow. I floundered over job listings and career discussions with headhunters, none of them appealing to me, the idea of going back to a nine-to-five job, crammed into subway cars like cattle, staring at spreadsheets all day with Micromanaging Marks and Type-A Taras hovering around me a soul-crushing prospect.

My mom and Simon assured me that the substantial inheritance I have coming my way was the cause of my lack of direction or motivation. I believe it, too. In part. But I also sensed the tectonic shift somewhere deep inside—my time in Alaska had changed me in ways I couldn’t pinpoint but also couldn’t ignore. Who I was and who I am now seem like two different people.

And then I found Jonah on my front porch, asking me to move to Alaska, and I felt those plates shift yet again. This time, life seems to be clicking into place.

Agnes presses her lips together, as if to muzzle her words.

“Just say what you want to say. Please.”

She sighs. “Following Jonah around Alaska while he flies planes won’t be enough. Not for a girl like you, Calla. Loving him won’t be enough. Not forever.” Agnes smiles, as if to soften the blow of her warning.

My stomach tightens. I expected this from my mother and, to a lesser degree, Simon. Never from Agnes. Maybe that’s why I’m not as quick to dismiss her words as scripture out of the Standard Parenting 101 handbook. “What will be enough, then?” Because I can’t imagine my life without Jonah in it anymore.

Several beats pass as she considers her answer, the corners of her eyes crinkling with thought. “Find your place here. Something that’s going to give you—Calla Fletcher—purpose. Something that feels like you.” She nods slowly, as if agreeing with her own answer. “Find that, and then give it your all.”