I’m betting Sharon and my mom would get along well, commiserating. “And Max is okay with leaving?”

“For now. He’s already talking about coming back in five years to work for Wren again. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Or should I say, airstrip.”

In five years. I can’t help but do the math. I’ll be thirty-one in five years. Where will I be by then? Back in Toronto, obviously. How many trips back to Alaska will I have made? Will Dad come to see me? Will I still be living with Mom and Simon? Or will I be married and gone? Will I be rubbing my pregnant belly like Sharon is?

Will my dad be around for any of it?

I swallow against the lump in my throat.

A shrunken Alaska Native woman shuffles toward the desk, clutching a small weekend bag. Her gray hair is wrapped in a hot-pink floral handkerchief, but otherwise her clothes are drab shades of brown and green, meant for warmth and nothing more.

“Any news yet?” she asks politely, smiling. As if she hasn’t been sitting in this lobby since seven this morning, which is how long most of these people have been lingering, according to Sharon. People who’ve been playing the waiting game all day, hoping that their flights will take off at some point. I count fourteen in total. Mostly fishermen, anxious to get out to their camps. It’s easy to spot the ones who aren’t from Alaska—they’re pacing around the lounge like caged animals, peering out at the sky every time they pass the window, grumbling with impatience. Those familiar with how things work sit quietly in their chairs, their attention on their phone screens or their knitting needles, or those they’re traveling with.

Planes were cleared for takeoff an hour ago. Half the flights have already left. Now it’s just a matter of being called.

“The guys are loading it up, Dolores.” Sharon smiles sympathetically at the woman. The supply plane that she’s hitching a ride with was stuck in a village overnight and was just landing when I got here. “You must be excited to see your sister again after a year.”

Dolores shrugs and mutters, “I wish she’d move down here.”

To me, Sharon explains, “You should see the village where Dolores is from. It’s near Barrow. I haven’t been, but Max has. The sun hasn’t set since when, Dolores?”

“Early May,” the old woman confirms.

“Right. Early May. It’ll finally go down in a few weeks. And then it doesn’t come up for two months in winter. At all. We can’t even fly there during the polar nights.”

“They get their supplies in the fall, or not at all,” Dolores confirms.

“And it’s cold up there, all the time.” Sharon shivers. “What’s the high for there today?”

“Forty.” Dolores tugs on her quilted coat as if to emphasize that.

I do the quick calculation in my head. That’s three degrees Celsius at the beginning of August. I shudder at the thought.

Dolores’s wise gaze zones in on me. “Who’s this girl? Your replacement?”

Sharon laughs. “No. This is Wren’s daughter. She’s just visiting.”

I get a curious once-over, much like the one I got from the woman at the grocery store. At least I don’t feel as out of place today, with my bare face and my flannel jacket. And then her gaze shifts to something behind me. A genuine smile stretches across the old lady’s face, showcasing misshapen yellowed teeth. “There you are.”

“On your way to see Helen again?”

My heart skips a beat at the sound of Jonah’s deep voice.

“Unfortunately. Are you taking me?” A hopeful sparkle dances in her black eyes. Does everyone in Alaska know and like Jonah?

“Not this time. But don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands with Jim.” He moves in to lean against the end of the desk, a position that allows him to face both of us while he talks.

I can’t seem to find the nerve to acknowledge him with a look or even a nod, and so I keep my focus on the old woman while watching him in my peripherals, all while my skin prickles with an electric current and my cheeks heat.

Three hours in the drizzle helped cool my hormones, both literally and figuratively. Letting that happen with Jonah this morning was a bad idea. I don’t regret it—how can I regret anything that felt that good?—but it can’t lead anywhere, so what’s the point? I’m going back to Toronto, where I belong, and he’s staying here in Alaska, where he belongs.

It’s a dead end.

It was a mistake.

Dolores’s black eyes crawl over Jonah’s face, pausing on his stitches. “I heard about the accident.”

“Just a scratch—I’m fine. I’m ready to go.”

Because you’re insane.

She frowns. “There’s something different about you, though.”

“No, there isn’t.” His voice is gruff, but his tone is teasing.

“Yes, there is.” She searches his face again. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

And I can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

“He finally got a haircut!” Maxine hollers from her seat a few feet over. She’s a short, plump woman with a loud voice and an even louder laugh.

Dolores makes a grunting sound, then studies him another long moment. “I liked the old beard better,” she finally states, as if he were waiting for her to pass judgment. “You’re too pretty now.”