“I’ll bet.” Though how anyone but legitimate flesh and blood could love Jonah is beyond me.

I’m so distracted with my thoughts that I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking. My left foot lands in a deep puddle. I cringe from both the shock of the cold, muddy water against my toes and the damage it’s going to do to the suede insole. “I guess it just rained?”

“It always ‘just rained’ around here.” Agnes tosses the duffel bag into the back of an old black GMC pickup truck that’s seen better days—the side of it is dented and scratched, and rust is eating away at the wheel well. “I hope you brought good rain boots with you.”

“I did. Beautiful, expensive red Hunter boots.” I pause for effect. “They’re in Anchorage with the rest of my clothes.”

“I’ll make sure we get your things here soon.” Agnes’s eyes flicker back toward the rows of planes. She opens her mouth as if to say something more, but then decides against it. “Let’s get you home.”

I hazard a glance. Jonah is strolling across the lot toward the hangar, his gait casual and assured. He turns my way once, before dismissing me entirely without so much as a wave.

Good riddance. If I don’t have to deal with him for the rest of the week, I’ll be more than happy.

The drive to my father’s house is not far—not even five minutes—and along lonely roads, the paved one riddled with yawning cracks, the dirt ones peppered with countless potholes. The few houses we see as we pass are basic, functional structures, mostly modular homes clad with colorful siding, all of them sitting above the ground on wooden legs. Because of the permafrost, Agnes explains.

I’ve made a mental note to look up “permafrost” in the dictionary when I have internet again.

Agnes has her seat pulled forward as far as it can go and sits straight-backed so she can see over the dash, her diminutive stature a challenge behind the wheel in a pickup truck. If I were in a more relaxed mood, I’d probably find it amusing.

But it helps to be with Agnes. She’s as calm in person as she was on the phone, her voice a lull as she points out the basic landmarks: the “city” of Bangor about five miles to the east, and the Kuskokwim River beside it. That’s the thick, snaking river I saw from above. She says it’s a main artery off the Bering Sea and it stretches far to the north, allowing for travel between villages by barge and boat during the warmer months and by vehicle once it has frozen over in winter. It’s the only way to drive a car to the villages, apparently, because there aren’t any roads to connect Bangor to the rest of the state.

On a clear day, Agnes promises I’ll be able to see Three Step Mountain in the far distance. Right now, though, all I see are miles upon miles of flat land freckled by low bushes, and capped by foggy skies.

And a sleepy moss-green modular home at the end of a long, narrow driveway, banked by a garage and two small utility sheds.

“Well . . . here we are,” Agnes murmurs, cutting the engine.

My father’s home. The place where I spent the first two years of my life.

Even though I don’t remember any of it, everything about this moment feels surreal.

I take a deep breath as I climb out of the truck and trail Agnes up a set of creaky wooden steps, and through a single door, only vaguely aware that she didn’t bother to use her key. The door was already unlocked.

I stop dead in my tracks and my eyes widen with shock as I take in the army of green mallard ducks. The atrocious wallpaper covers every square inch of kitchen wall. It’s not a large kitchen, by any means, which makes it feel all the more enclosed.

As horrendous as it is, I stifle the sudden urge to giggle. This must be what my mother was talking about. I can’t wait to tell her that she was right, that she does still know my father.

Agnes tosses the truck keys onto the counter. “Wren always forgets to open these before he leaves in the morning.” She stretches onto her tiptoes to yank the cord attached to the blinds on the window over the sink, allowing the murky daylight in to illuminate the golden oak cabinets, the cream-colored laminate countertop, and the matching shade of vinyl flooring—a pattern of squares with small burgundy triangles accenting each corner. It reminds me of the flooring my grandparents had in their basement.

With only the small window above the sink, the one in the door, and a single-bulb light fixture above, it’s dim in here. I can only imagine how oppressive it would feel during the long winters.

“When does it get dark, anyway?” I ask, curling my arms around my chest more for comfort than heat.

“At this time of year? The sun sets just before midnight, and then rises around a quarter past four, but it doesn’t get really dark at night right now. Not like it does in the winter.”

My eyes widen. I knew the days were long, but a midnight sunset?

“I replaced the blackout shades in your room. The old ones were tattered. You’ll definitely want to draw those. Unless you’re like your father, who doesn’t mind sleeping in daylight.” Agnes wanders to the fridge. “You must be hungry. Help yourself to whatever’s in the . . .” Her brow crinkles as she holds the door open to show shelves bare of food, save for some condiments and a few beverages. “He promised he’d go grocery shopping,” she mutters under her breath, quiet enough that I don’t think she meant me to hear it. She lifts the carton of milk, to open it and give it a sniff. Her nose crinkles. “I wouldn’t drink this, if I were you.”