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“Yeah, not bad,” I murmur as I scroll through Alaska Aviator’s website. They claim to be the best charter plane company in Alaska. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m guessing any tourist planning a trip here would take them for their word.
Everything I could possibly want to know is listed—their history, their types of planes, their excursions, their pilots. Safety records, rates, recommendations for lodging and camps—the list goes on. And they have proof in pictures, too! A gallery of picturesque Alaskan landscape and wildlife, taken in every season, meant to lure people in.
If I were a tourist looking to book an excursion, this Alaska Aviator company would likely be at the top of my list. And if not them, then one of the ten other companies I’ve spent the past several hours perusing from my rickety chair on the porch.
It would certainly not be Alaska Wild, which was far down the screen on the search results and didn’t offer me any information besides a directory listing.
“You’re not paying attention to me, are you?” Diana snaps.
“I am! I swear,” I lie. “I think it’s great. Except it’ll be ‘How to Stretch One Leisure Look for an Entire Trip in the Wild ’ if I don’t get the rest of my clothes. I guess that’d be good for backpackers,” I add, half-heartedly.
“You still haven’t gotten your suitcases? That’s madness.”
“Should be today.” Hopefully.
“Okay, so you’ll still have four days to put something together.”
“I guess.”
“Calla! What is your problem? It’s like you don’t care.”
“I don’t know. I’m tired, I guess. I took Benadryl for these bites and it’s making me sleepy.” I wince as I inspect the giant, red welts on my calf. “I don’t think it’s working, either. My skin is all hot, too.”
“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.
