How he got to work without his truck, I can’t guess. Maybe he got a ride from Agnes?

Regardless, it clearly didn’t cross his mind that I might not have my driver’s license.

“No, no, you go ahead to work, Dad. What? But we haven’t seen each other in twenty-four years? No biggie. I would never expect you to take an hour or two off. Seriously, I’ll take care of myself,” I mutter, trying to squash the sting in my chest.

I spend a few minutes rifling through the bare fridge and disorganized cupboards to learn that my father lives off coffee, cheap sugar-loaded peanut butter, and frozen macaroni-and-cheese dinners.

It’s a good thing I’m not hungry. What I am, though, is desperate for one of Simon’s frothy soy milk lattes. I don’t have a lot of vices, but my regular dose of caffeine in the morning is number one on a short list. On the rarest of occasions that I miss my fix—I could count those days on one hand—my head is throbbing by midday.

Five years ago, Simon surprised us at Christmas with a fancy barista machine that can rival Starbucks. I swear he sits at the breakfast bar every morning with his cup of Earl Grey and his Globe and Mail and listens for the first creak of steps from the third floor, just so he can hit Brew. By the time I’m staggering down to the kitchen half-asleep, he’s sliding a hot mug into my hands. To keep the Kraken at bay, he claims, though I’m pretty sure it has more to do with his secret fascination with the frother.

A pang of homesickness stirs inside me, but I push it aside, focusing on the matter at hand. This Meyer’s place doesn’t open for another two and a half hours. That means I have time to kill while I figure out how I’m going to get there so I can survive this day.

Beads of sweat trickle down my face as I pause for a gulp of water and to catch my breath, my gaze landing on my father’s mossy green home in the distance. I lasted twenty minutes in that eerily quiet, uncomfortable house with nothing but my tense thoughts and my laptop before my disquiet forced me out. Throwing on my running gear and investigating my surroundings seemed like as good an excuse for escape as any.

I can see Agnes’s house in the distance, too. It’s like a mirror image of my father’s house—same size, same distance from the road, same wooden porch leading up to the door—except it’s white, and there’s no truck in the driveway. It was already gone when I ventured out. I assume she’s at work, too.

The mileage tracker on my phone claims I’ve run ten kilometers and I haven’t lost sight of either house this entire time. There’s been little to obstruct the view—fields of low bushes and a few scattered houses—and not another living soul to distract my focus.

Not a single person driving by, or riding a tractor, or walking their dog. Not even an echoing bark to carry through the stillness. It’s unsettling. I’m so used to the constant flow of people, the blasts of horns and roars of engines, and the clatter of construction. It’s white noise for me, and I’ve come to need it as I need the rhythmic waves of an app to sleep. Add the fact that I don’t have a working phone and I feel completely cut off from the world out here.

How can anyone find this peaceful?

“Ow!” I slap my thigh, leaving a squashed tiny corpse clinging to my skin where my palm made contact. The mosquitoes have been relentless all morning, swarming my damp, bare flesh.

A second and third pinch on my arms and calves gets me running once again. That seems to be the only way for some respite.

I keep a steady, solid pace along the road, the rhythmic pounding of my running shoes against dirt the only sound, until a low, familiar buzz catches my ear. A yellow charter plane climbs the sky above me, leveling off just below the thick layer of tufted clouds the color of sheep’s wool, the kind that promise rain at any moment. I can’t discern the logo on the side of the plane, but it could very well be an Alaska Wild charter.

It could very well be my dad.

Trying to get as far away from his daughter as possible.

Can he see me down here in my hot-pink running outfit and matching running shoes?

At least they used to be pink. Now they’re covered in mud splatter, thanks to the dirty roads. A week of this place and I might as well toss them onto the Davisville subway station tracks to join the others.

The plane fades into the distance and once again I’m completely alone. Just me and a million blood-sucking mosquitoes.

Up ahead is a cluster of shed-like buildings surrounded by a low, spindly hedge. They’re all shapes and sizes, all with ruby-red roofs. A few look like houses, but others look like barns. But for what? My mom insisted that nothing can grow in this climate. As I get closer, I see the clear structures set up behind the buildings. They’re definitely greenhouses. There are pickup trucks and tractors, and garden patches scattered throughout, with rows of vegetation. Some are covered with white plastic, others with white semicircular hoops lining them.

And beyond are fields of vegetables. Rows upon rows of heads of lettuce and tall stocks of green onions, and chartreuse carrot fronds, and things I can’t discern from here. Two people toil around a lemon-yellow barrel, hoses in hand.

There is life out here after all.

And things to grow. Either the soil has changed drastically in twenty-four years or my mother was wrong about the barren wasteland. Or maybe she gave up on growing things in Alaska before ever trying.

A sharp pinch pricks me and, quick as a swatter, my hand flies up to slap against my neck. I cringe as three squashed mosquitoes cling to my hand and then take off at a clipped pace, desperate for sanctuary from the bugs and a long, hot shower.