“Oh . . . that’s not good. I hope that doesn’t turn into cellulitis.”

“Cellulite what?” I squawk, panicked.

“Not cellulite. Cellulitis. It’s an infection. Get a pen and draw a circle around the outside edge. If the redness spreads outside it, you probably need antibiotics.”

“How do you know this?”

“Hi, have we met? Because my mom’s a nurse.”

“Right,” I murmur.

“But I’m sure you’ll be fine. It’ll take another dose or two probably, and then you’ll be good to go. Oh! I was also thinking we could do a post on . . .”

My attention wavers as Diana prattles on, something about Viking braids and hot springs. The truth is, I don’t think my lack of enthusiasm has anything to do with my missing clothes or antihistamines. It’s more that Calla & Dee seems so . . . trivial right now.

“What about the yeti?” she asks suddenly, instantly pulling me in.

“What about him?” Diana has heard the gory details of my first and second encounters with Jonah, the text conversation littered with four-letter words and hopes for an unfortunate sexual encounter with a feral animal.

“I don’t know. Maybe we can do a second round of ‘Bushman to Gentleman.’ Alaska edition.”

I snort. “Believe me, it would take a whole lot more than a pair of shears to uncover anything gentlemanly about him. Plus, I think he likes that look.” He must. Why else would he allow it to go so long?

“Crap. I’ve gotta go. Beef Stick’s waving me over,” Diana mutters. “It’s like I’m his personal secretary or something.”

“He does own the firm,” I remind her. The fact that Diana’s boss lives off those long, skinny meat sticks you find at convenience store counters doesn’t change that.

“Man, I’ve gotta find a new job. Talk to you later,” she says in a rushed whisper, and then hangs up.

I stick my earbuds back in, turn on my music, and return to my research, picking at the ham sandwich I made for lunch while I read up on Alaska Wild’s competitors, until I decide that a sandwich is not what I feel like after all. So I head into the house to fix myself a plate of hummus and carrots, and a glass of a ready-made green smoothie.

I step back out through the sliding door.

And yelp. There’s a raccoon perched atop the table, its busy paws pulling apart the slices of bread.

“Shoo! Go on!” I yell, expecting it to hightail out the cracked porch door where it clearly snuck through.

But it merely glares at me with its beady eyes before turning back to my sandwich.

I give a nearby plastic bin a kick. “Get out of here!”

The raccoon chatters at me, that odd squeaking sound grating on my nerves.

And then it scampers forward.

I take several stumbling steps back, losing half my plate of food to the floor and spilling my smoothie all over my jeans as I try to get away from it.

It’s temporarily distracted by a rolling carrot, picking it up in its nimble paws, flipping it this way and that.

Are Alaskan raccoons different from Toronto raccoons?

Will this one attack?

There’s a straw broom perched in the corner. I dump the plate and glass on a nearby ledge and grab the handle, getting a good grip with two hands, ready to take a swing.

“Bandit!” a deep voice calls.

The raccoon stands on its hind legs and turns toward the voice, pausing to listen.

“Bandit! Get over here!”

It takes off, squeezing through the ajar porch door. I watch, with the broom handle still gripped within my fists, as the animal trots across the lawn toward Jonah, to stop a mere foot away. It stands on its hind legs and reaches up into the air.

“Hey, buddy. You getting into trouble?” Jonah gives the raccoon’s head an affectionate scratch, to which it chatters back excitedly.

“You have got to be kidding me!” My face twists in horror as realization sinks in. “He’s your pet?”

“No. You’re not allowed to have raccoons as pets in the state of Alaska,” Jonah says matter-of-factly.

“So, what is he, then? Because he sure looks like a pet.”

“He’s a raccoon that likes to hang out around my house.” Jonah’s gaze narrows at the broom in my hand. “What were you planning on doing with that?”

“Chase him out of here before he bit me.”

“He won’t bite you unless you give him reason to.”

I think of Tim and Sid, their humps bobbing as they scurry down the driveway after rooting through bones and rotten, smelly meat packaging, and I cringe. “You know they carry diseases, right?”

Jonah gives the raccoon one last pat before standing tall again. The raccoon scampers away. “Bandit’s fine.”

“You named him.”

“Yeah. You know, because of the black mask around—”

“I get it,” I interrupt. “Super original.” But also, fitting. “He stole my sandwich.”

Jonah shrugs. “Don’t leave your sandwich lying around where he can steal it, then.”

“I didn’t leave it lying around. It was on a plate, on a table, inside here. He came in here. And he made me spill my drink all over myself.” I throw a hand at my jeans, covered in thick green liquid. My socks are soaked through.