Page 1 of Big Dill

1

Jami

Canada.

Churchill Falls, Labrador—to be precise.

North of sixty.

Okay 53.5° N but that’s splitting hairs. Or rather latitudes.

Latitudes that tell us Churchill Falls with its subarctic personality disorder is…cold.

So cold rumor has it that the local birds get around on commercial flights. I really like to think that’s a joke, but honestly, I have my doubts. One thing I’m sure of though, is that you have to plug your car in at night to reduce stress on the battery.

Speaking of stress…

Stepping outside in mid-winter requires a full-body snow suit and eyes squeezed shut like you’re bracing for a frigid slap. Fashionable? Absolutely not. Necessary? Unless you want your eyeballs to freeze in their sockets before you dramatically die of frostbite…yeah.

No, I am not being over the top ridiculous. This place is so close to the Arctic Circle there’s still snow on the ground in May. I know this, because I can currently see it from the plane’s frosty window. A shiver goes through me, freezing the blood in my veins.

Freezing.

Ugh.

Not a fan of the word.

Ah, but it’s May, Jami, and summer is just around the corner, right?

Forget about it.

The mosquitos are big enough to carry you away. You can’t even donate blood in this company town. The people are all anemic, thanks to the rapidly breeding (read: randy) mosquitoes with their hardy appetites…and probably malaria.

Ahh, yes, Churchill Falls, Labrador, population twelve hundred. Soon to be twelve hundred and one. Right after I land.

The perfect place for a girl in her late twenties to live.

Said no sane person ever.

I sigh heavily as I dig my nails into the cracked, vinyl seat on this small…cargo plane. Yeah. The Dash 8 we were supposed to fly on had mechanical errors and was grounded. Very reassuring. This plane, with an engine the size of my sewing machine—a sewing machine that had recently been stolen from me—is obviously so much safer.

Don’t even get me started on the pilot. No seasoned veteran would ever take this god-awful route. Which is why I’m 98% sure we’re being flown by a junior first officer. A rookie. A literal child. I swear I saw him sneak a Happy Meal into the cockpit before takeoff.

Another jolt rocks the plane, and as the wings flutter, all I can think is…FML.

The plane bucks again. I rock with it, my spine cracking like bubble wrap. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I’m grateful for the distraction. I yank it out, praying it isn’t the airline texting ‘good luck with the landing’, but no, it’s my brother. Which explains why I know so much about the coldest place on the planet.

Fine. Not the coldest.

Not really.

But okay.

Jaxon’s message flashes: Welcome to Churchill Fall with about six joyous emojis. God, I love the guy. I really do. He’s been my rock since childhood. Steady, loyal, the one person who remembered to feed me when Mom and Dad, Dalhousie University’s absent-minded professors, forgot children require more than Post-it notes on the refrigerator and lectures.

But I am seriously questioning his sanity. Why on earth would he abandon gorgeous, coastal Nova Scotia—land of salt air and reasonable temperatures, for this? A place so remote it might as well be labelled BUTT F$%# NOWHERE on Google Maps.

The laugh that escapes me is part hysterical, and part trying-not-to-cry, because really, who am I to judge. I’m the one hurtling toward the arctic tundra, leaving my whole world behind.