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There are very few patrons at the small general store and gas station. Kirk’s assistant Marty is stocking one of the refrigerated units with bottled coffee. I recognize a couple of locals who are shoving canned goods into a basket, but I don’t bother to acknowledge them. Two men in snow-camouflage jackets catch my attention.
“Need a guide?” Kirk addresses one of the men in camo.
“What for?”
“Guides know the area,” he says. “Show you the better hunting spots.”
Kirk lowers his voice, but I don’t need to hear to know what he’s saying. I look over my list and grab a couple more items off the shelves as the conversation continues out of earshot. The mumbling ends abruptly, but I don’t look up. I still hear the two men approach me.
“I hear you can show us around.” The one who addresses me is the older of the two. They look enough alike that they must be related, but the age difference isn’t enough to be father and son. Older brother, maybe. They’re both rough looking—unshaven and in need of the shower facilities in the back.
“Hunting season is well over,” I say.
“Yeah, but we’re still here for two more days.” The younger one sneers at me as he speaks, as if I should know his travel plans. “No one up here cares about the regs.”
“It will take two days to get you to the right spot,” I tell him. “Looks like the storm season is going to be early this year. Even if I cared to fuck up my business by ignoring the season dates, I’m not going out and getting caught up in a blizzard for days.”
“Well, fuck you for nothing!”
I raise an eyebrow at the younger guy but say nothing as he spits toward my boots, huffs, and then both men storm out of the shop. I glare up at Kirk, who just shrugs.
“I thought you might need the business,” he says.
“I don’t.” I close my eyes briefly before getting back to the task at hand. “Save it for the spring. Right now, I need kerosene.”
“I’ve got five gallons set aside for you,” Kirk says. He yells over at Marty and tells him to load the kerosene into my Jeep. Kirk looks around the shop, but it’s pretty empty inside after the abrupt departure of the hunters. He leans close to me and speaks quietly. “I’ve got a little something extra for you.”
Kirk reaches under the counter and pulls out a paper sack. He tilts it toward me and opens the top, revealing two bottles of Jameson whiskey.
“Nice!” I smile and nod. “How much?”
“For you? Seventy-five.”
“You got it.”
Whatì is a completely dry community and prides itself on the lack of alcohol. Alcohol and freezing temperatures are usually a bad combination and can even bring on hypothermia under the right conditions. I don’t know where Kirk gets his hooch, especially the name brand stuff. I don’t have the heart to tell him I grabbed a bottle in Yellowknife, but I’m grateful that he thought to save me a couple bottles. I’m not a big drinker, but the burn of whiskey still warms me during the long nights. Maybe it’s only psychological, but it makes me feel better and helps me sleep when the wind is howling. Besides, I like supporting Kirk’s business, and I’m not going to buy his artwork.
“Anything else?” Kirk asks.
“Just cigarettes,” I say. “I can find the rest myself.”
“There’s a carton in the bag already.” Kirk moves one bottle aside so I can see the carton behind it.
“Cool.” We fist bump, and I look back to the goods.
At the end of one aisle is a small selection of pet products, and I suddenly recall what I had forgotten before—cat supplies. I look at a bag of kitten food. If I get it, Kirk will ask me a bunch of questions that I won’t want to answer. I’m not embarrassed by the idea of owning a pet, but talking to people has never been my thing, and we’ve already chatted enough. With my work season over, I’m already getting myself into a mindset of no talking, and I don’t want to break that.
I pick up a small container of Sheba brand cat food. On the front of the package is a grey cat with green eyes lying on its side and staring at the camera. It looks like an older version of the kitten at my cabin, but this isn’t kitten food. I place the container back on the shelf. There are large plastic jugs of cat litter, but it wouldn’t last long, and the sawdust seemed to work well enough. I select a plastic dishpan to replace the metal one though—eventually the kitten’s claws against the metal bake pan will drive me insane.
I go back to my shopping. A moment later, the bell on the door jingles as—oddly enough—an obviously non-indigenous woman walks in. I can’t recall ever seeing a woman who wasn’t a local in this part of town, not this time of year. The woman has the pale look of a tourist but isn’t acting like one. She keeps her head down as she makes her way to the back of the shop to browse through the snacks. Her freckled cheeks are red from the cold, and her brown hair is long and braided down her back with wisps sticking out around her face.
She’s cute and totally out of place in this environment. I hope she has more cold-weather gear. Her coat isn’t heavy enough and her gloves are far too thin for the winter weather.
I finish my shopping without getting any cat food. Instead, I get a large box of dry milk and a couple pints of fresh. The little bugger doesn’t have much of a chance anyway, and if it dies, at least I won’t be stuck with supplies I can’t use.
As I head up to the register, the woman is still in the aisle of snacks. She keeps glancing up at Kirk behind the register.
She shuffles her feet and reaches for a bag of trail mix.
