“They don’t bother me.”

“They ate me alive this morning.”

“Maybe try putting on clothes next time you go running.”

My mouth drops open. “There’s nothing wrong with what I run in.” Granted, my shorts are short and snug, for comfort. So is the tank top. And the outfit works better along city streets that aren’t infested with bugs, so I guess I can see his point. Not that I’ll ever admit that to him. And wait a minute . . . “Were you spying on me?”

He snorts. “I happened to look out the window to see you running up the driveway in clothes that leave nothing to the imagination, flailing your hands like a madwoman.” He throws his SUV into drive and we coast along the bumpy driveway in loaded silence, my cheeks burning.

“Thanks for driving me,” I finally offer. He might not be thrilled about it, but at least he is helping me.

I get only a small grunt in response. And then, “Why haven’t you had a coffee yet? Wren always makes a full pot and leaves it on. You couldn’t just pour yourself a cup?”

Why does everything out of his mouth sound like a direct assault? “I need soy milk.”

“Of course you do,” he mutters.

I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I’m guessing it’s not flattering.

We ride the rest of the way into town in silence.

Bangor, town of sixty-five hundred and the largest community in Western Alaska, is a shithole.

At least, that’s my first impression.

I bite my tongue against the urge to say as much, as we drive along a snaking main road, passing intersections with street signs for more rural roads—some gravel, others with asphalt that’s so badly cracked, they’d have been better off leaving it unpaved.

Single-and double-story buildings are scattered along either side. They remind me of the ones from the airport, rectangular and clad in siding, topped with metal sheets. Some are drab creams and browns; others are weathered peacock blues and emerald greens. Where there are windows, they’re disproportionately small. Meanwhile some have no windows at all. And all of them are connected by silver pipes that run along the grassy ground, from one property to the next.

“Is this an industrial area?”

“Nope.”

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. Jonah’s second favorite word, behind “yup.”

We pass by one property that has a playground set erected in the yard. Two young children dangle from monkey bars as a husky sits on its haunches, looking on, no parents in sight. Many of these buildings are family homes, I realize, now noticing the bicycles lying on lawns and baseball bats propped against walls, and a lopsided trampoline. Homes with not a shred of curb appeal. No leading walkways or pleasing gardens, no welcoming front entrance. Only scraggly shrubs and dust-covered ATVs, and unsightly cylindrical tanks.

It’s because we’re on the outskirts, I convince myself. As Jonah takes me farther into this town in the middle of nowhere—with no roads connecting it to the rest of Alaska—we’ll come across a visage that I’m more familiar with. Actual neighborhoods with brick houses and driveways lined with daylilies and rosebushes. A main street with some degree of city planning, with proper storefronts and decorative streetlamps and people dressed in something other than value-brand jeans and plain cotton shirts.

Areas where there aren’t spray-painted Dumpsters on every corner like the one we just passed, decorated with rainbows and suns and “Bangor is the Best” messages. Meanwhile, the streets are littered with debris that’s been dragged through the weedy grass by animals.

The farther in we drive, though, the less confident I become.

Thank you, Mother, for getting us the hell out of here when you did.

There aren’t even sidewalks along the streets. Everywhere I look, I see people walking along the ditch at an unhurried pace. Some carry brown paper grocery bags. Most don rubber boots or hiking-type shoes, and seem unconcerned about stepping in muddy puddles or the spots of dirt spattering their pants.

They’re of all ages, some as young as ten or eleven, one an elderly Alaska Native man whose limp is so pronounced, he should be walking with a cane. “He’s going to fall and hurt himself,” I murmur, more to myself, not expecting a response from Jonah, beyond maybe a grunt.

“Yupik people are tough. That man probably walks three miles every day.”

I frown. “What people?”

“Yupik. Some are Athabascan, or Aleut.” Jonah makes a left turn. “The villages that we fly into are mostly Yupik communities.”

“Is that what Agnes is?”

“Yup. She grew up in a village up the river. Her mom and brothers are still there, living a subsistence lifestyle.” He adds quickly, perhaps after seeing my frown, “They live off the land.”

“Oh! So, sort of like farm-to-table?” Unlike all the other exchanges I’ve had with Jonah, I feel like I’m getting useful information about Western Alaska.

“Sure. If you want to compare an entire culture’s way of life to the latest culinary trend . . .” he murmurs dryly.

I study the faces of people as we pass them. About half of them are Alaska Natives, while the other half are Caucasian, except for the one East Indian who’s standing next to a battered Tahoma with its hood propped up and steam swirling from its engine.