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A second and third pinch on my arms and calves gets me running once again. That seems to be the only way for some respite.
I keep a steady, solid pace along the road, the rhythmic pounding of my running shoes against dirt the only sound, until a low, familiar buzz catches my ear. A yellow charter plane climbs the sky above me, leveling off just below the thick layer of tufted clouds the color of sheep’s wool, the kind that promise rain at any moment. I can’t discern the logo on the side of the plane, but it could very well be an Alaska Wild charter.
It could very well be my dad.
Trying to get as far away from his daughter as possible.
Can he see me down here in my hot-pink running outfit and matching running shoes?
At least they used to be pink. Now they’re covered in mud splatter, thanks to the dirty roads. A week of this place and I might as well toss them onto the Davisville subway station tracks to join the others.
The plane fades into the distance and once again I’m completely alone. Just me and a million blood-sucking mosquitoes.
Up ahead is a cluster of shed-like buildings surrounded by a low, spindly hedge. They’re all shapes and sizes, all with ruby-red roofs. A few look like houses, but others look like barns. But for what? My mom insisted that nothing can grow in this climate. As I get closer, I see the clear structures set up behind the buildings. They’re definitely greenhouses. There are pickup trucks and tractors, and garden patches scattered throughout, with rows of vegetation. Some are covered with white plastic, others with white semicircular hoops lining them.
And beyond are fields of vegetables. Rows upon rows of heads of lettuce and tall stocks of green onions, and chartreuse carrot fronds, and things I can’t discern from here. Two people toil around a lemon-yellow barrel, hoses in hand.
There is life out here after all.
And things to grow. Either the soil has changed drastically in twenty-four years or my mother was wrong about the barren wasteland. Or maybe she gave up on growing things in Alaska before ever trying.
A sharp pinch pricks me and, quick as a swatter, my hand flies up to slap against my neck. I cringe as three squashed mosquitoes cling to my hand and then take off at a clipped pace, desperate for sanctuary from the bugs and a long, hot shower.
And then I guess I’ll have to wait until someone gives a damn that I’m here and checks in on me.
What are the chances that a cop would pull me over around here, anyway?
I consider this as I peer out the kitchen window at my dad’s pickup, the dull ache behind my eyes from lack of caffeine quickly growing to a gnawing throb. I felt it coming a half hour ago and attempted to choke down a mug of black coffee out of desperation. I gave up after three sips and then spent ten minutes scrubbing the bitter taste out of my mouth with my toothbrush, unable to swallow any more.
To make matters worse, my stomach is now growling in protest and my heart is being tested by the raw reality that I am one right turn, one left turn—or five miles, per the note—from civilization and I’ve been all but abandoned by my father.
Agnes was wrong. Today is not better.
I check my Uber app. No cars available in my area.
With gritted teeth, I Google the number to Wild Alaska’s main line. Because, of course, my dad didn’t think to leave me his contact number.
Agnes answers on the third ring.
“It’s Calla.”
“Oh, good morning. How was your sleep?”
“Fine. Is my dad there?”
“Uh . . . no. He took off a little while ago, on his way up to Barrow to check on things. Won’t be back until this afternoon.” There’s a pause. “He said he left you the truck, though, so you could go into town.”
“I don’t have my license.”
“Oh.” I can almost see the deep frown lines in her forehead. “So you’re stuck there.”
“Pretty much. With nothing to eat.” I don’t bother hiding the irritation from my voice.
“Okay. Well, let’s see . . .” I hear papers shuffling in the background. “Sharon can cover for me while I drive you in.”
“Perfect.”
“She’ll be in at noon.”
