He searched the scrolling green outside her car for something of note. The shift had helped at first, but there loomed a point of no return. The whole summer to think of. “Do you know the area the cabin’s in?” he said, “From last time.” She had worked down there a couple of years before, something with counting fish.
“No,” she said. Then, after a moment, “We were a ways out, miles up the creek. Our place’s right in town.”
Our place. “Didn’t you get into town, though? It wasn’t all just salmon.”
“We’d carpool over to bars or whatever on weekends.”
“Salmon and drinking, then?” Yellow dashes on pavement,.
“There’s karaoke and trivia at The Yukon, this awful place Tony’s that had pool tables, sometimes live music played out a–”
“What, why’s it awful?”
“–t The Pit… Tony’s? Oh, it sucks, you’ll see. Maybe. I won’t be showing you.”
“A bad crowd? But no military there, at least.” That’s what was complained about.
“No, it’s just awful.”
He laughed, “Is it old then, another Kennecott situation?” She’d said that castles and cathedrals were the issue, but historic-lodge-turned-museums had turned out to be trouble too. And ghost towns.
“Ask around when we’re there.”
“We’re going to Tony’s first thing after we get in tonight.”
“No.”
The signs and structures were already lit when they started to disrupt his forest view; it was early spring, though midnight sun would never touch this coast anyway. They pulled in for gas outside a Fred’s. He pointed across the way after she got back in, to green letters glowing in a window.
Over the table they met eyes.
“Still good to drive? I’ll do the night shift.”
“No, I like driving.”
They finished their burritos in silence. The neon word was the wrong way round, now, and they were the same. Buzzing.
The Subaru navigated vacant blocks, a break between highways. Past the city towered moonlit snow caps; their slopes pressed the road to a ledge over the ocean, until it finally relented and slipped inland up a valley. Down again and they had crossed the peninsula.
“Hey, I just got back into service.”
“…”
“Do you think that you will be there for a bit?”
“…”
“Okay, see you soon.” She hung up. “We’ll meet them at The Yukon.” Buildings thickened around the highway until it no longer was one.
The overhead florescents reflected off stained wood, bathing them in red. Short hair curled at the nape. He sat on a stool beside a ceiling post, behind the chairs, with the shot he’d bummed on introduction. Cold air across the face, then not again, but he couldn’t tell what was wrong.
Worn pebbles traced back to their parked vehicles; she had kept careful pace with the pickup down the winding dirt roads. Waves crashed, whipping across the bay, over from that street they had stumbled along. A tarp flapped before two double bunks. In the corner a camp stove flickered blue—one penknife against it all.
While the shelter lacked any windows, sunlight still bled in on account of the gaps. The two strangers filled their space, tending to a kettle that now sat atop the flame, but there was no sign of her from his pillow.
“Morning.” His elbows scraped wood through the bedding.
They each gave a nod. On the floor the heel of his Solomon poked out from under a blanket; farther up hung fingers.
“Tony’s,” one said, “Fuckin’ killed the whole night.”
He swung down and dug out the shoes. The digits retracted, and auburn tumbled above the quilt.
Gravel, waves, the bay and the town front, framed by mist and mountains under monochrome skies. Sunrise in Sepia: a 16mm exposure. The beach held nothing but the hut and bare trees. He urinated at a trunk, then strolled up the coast, away from where they’d driven in from. Docks came into view, but not a sail in sight.
“We made some for you, too.” She sat in bed, cross-legged with a mug, the blankets up around her shoulders. On the table a second mug stood beside the kettle. The brave burner had been snuffed.
“It’s freezing out there with the wind, my clothes are still damp from last night,” he said. Then, “Where are they?” Her hosts.
“They left for work.”
“Oh.” A knot. “Hatchery, right?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Mmm.” It was black with honey. British breakfast. “What’s the plan, then?”
“She said she can’t get us the keys until later tonight. Want to go to the library?”
His thumb moved towards the ceiling. After a left-handed struggle with a jeans pocket, he lowered the tea. “It doesn’t open ’til eleven. We could just park and walk around, that street looked nice.”
Her turn for a gesture.
The aisles were visible through panes on the second-floor. Next came a coffee hut, with a long line running from its window. A nautical cafe packed with fast-breakers. Thrift above a stairway. Crisp grass waved in the breeze, as did the floral flags hung from each lamppost. Whitecaps washed the rock bank. Pavement swept clean. For a moment, her shadow.
Along a row of residences there was a Victorian that advertised espresso. Profiles sipped drinks in the upstairs window, above which was a steeple.
“Doesn’t look as crowded here,” he said. As he turned, over her shoulder he could make out a stark dawn across the water.
“No.”
They took lattes up, and found a table.