“No, it’s…” She throws up her hands. “It’s actually not that bad. The problem is the location of the bullet. It’s a tricky extraction, and I don’t care how steady your psychiatrist’s hands might be, you need someone on site who knows what she’s doing.” She consults her cell phone. “I can give you three days. Possibly four.”
“What?”
“It’s Thursday. I was planning to work in the lab today and tomorrow, but that’s not necessary. I need to be back for Tuesday, when I’m consulting on a surgery. You can have me until then.”
TWO
I have no idea how we got from “I can’t spare fifteen minutes for you, Casey” to “I’m yours for the next four days.”
My sister is coming to Rockton, and I can’t quite wrap my head around that.
Dalton made the call to let her come, his excuse being that he doesn’t want to “bother” the council with it. The council is Rockton’s governing body, though they never set foot in the town.
Two weeks ago, they sent us a serial killer for safekeeping. We aren’t equipped for that, and he escaped. During the ensuing chase, Kenny got shot in the back, which is why we need April. We also lost our de facto town leader, Val. A few days ago, the council sent us Phil, who used to be our radio contact for communicating with them. That means the communication system is a bit of a mess, and Dalton decides to skip it, which makes a very fine excuse.
There’s an old saying about it being easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. That’s what Dalton decides to do here. We don’t trust the council to let us bring April in, and if we don’t bring April in, Kenny will spend his life in a wheelchair. So, we’ll sneak April into Rockton. She’ll treat Kenny, and then we’ll spirit her out of there. If we do this right, the only people who’ll know are those who have to know—all people we trust.
We cannot tell April where she’s going. In this, Dalton treats her like a new resident. She gets the usual spiel. Don’t ask where you’re going. Don’t try to figure it out. Leave your cell phone and all electronics behind. Make one call to the person others will phone if they can’t contact you. Tell him or her that you’re taking the weekend off. I suggest she say she needs a stress break, an offline sabbatical. Dalton wouldn’t understand the concept. April will.
She balks at leaving her tech behind. I explain that we don’t have cellular or Wi-Fi access, and even recharging her batteries would mean plugging into a generator. She doesn’t care. She argues that she needs her laptop, even if it’s offline. I can tell Dalton’s frustrated—we need to get her on a plane ASAP—but I work it out. She can take the laptop, nothing more.
We escort April to her condo to pack. She doesn’t much like that either, but we’re taking a huge chance here, one that could blow up with a slip of the tongue when she makes that call. I overhear it. It’s brief, and I don’t ask who she called. I have her put an autoreply on her email and a message on her voice mail, explaining the offline weekend.
Then we’re gone.
* * *
Rockton is in the Yukon. It might seem like it’d be wise to hide that—fly commercial into northern British Columbia, and then take a small plane. That’s pointless, really. No one is going to find it.
Rockton is a wilderness town of two hundred, hidden by both technological and structural camouflage. The Yukon is roughly the size of Texas with a population of thirty-five thousand people. When Dalton first told me that, I thought he was misspeaking. He had to be. In a place that size, even tacking on a zero would make it sparsely populated. Dalton never misspeaks when it comes to facts. There are indeed thirty-five thousand people, three-quarters of them living in the capital, Whitehorse. The rest is wilderness. Glorious, empty, achingly beautiful wilderness.
As the plane begins its descent, I’m like a kid, with my nose pressed against the glass. I see the mountains, the tallest still drizzled with snow. And I see trees, endless waves of green in more
shades than I ever thought possible. Beside me, Dalton reaches for my hand. Across the aisle, April sees me staring out the window, and I catch her frowning reflection in it.
“What do you see?” she asks when I turn.
Home. That’s what I want to say. I see the only place I’ve ever truly considered home. She’d grimace at that, so I only say, “We’re in the Yukon.”
There’s no one in the seat beside her, and she leans to peer out her window for exactly two seconds before straightening with: “Trees.”
“Yep,” Dalton says. “That’s what you get in a boreal forest.”
She ignores him and returns to working on her laptop. I think back to the first time I flew in. Even then, while I’d never consider myself outdoorsy, I’d been transfixed by the view. April has granted it only a fleeting glance, and with that, I’m five years old again, showing her an anthill or a turtle, waiting for a flicker of interest, and instead getting that two-second glance before she moves on.
We have a couple of hours before our connection to Dawson City, so I suggest popping into Whitehorse. Dalton’s quick to agree—sitting in the tiny airport really isn’t his idea of fun. April objects. It’s only a two-hour wait. Leaving the airport is unwise. We’ll need to go through security again. And really, what’s the point?
“The point is that your sister wants a cookie,” Dalton says. “And probably a cappuccino.”
April stares, as if he’s obviously kidding. He waves her to the exit and then prods her along, like a shepherd with a balking sheep.
I talk too much on the cab ride. I can’t help it. I want April to see the incredible views and be stunned. To see the Yukon’s “wilderness city” and be charmed. We go to the Alpine Bakery, and I know she’s always been pro-organic, pro-natural-foods, and I want her to be impressed at finding that here. I want her to get a cup of locally roasted coffee and a freshly baked cookie and relax.
Instead, she frets. Is it really safe to let the cab leave? Shouldn’t we just grab my snack and go? My God, is that loaf of bread actually seven dollars?
“It’s the north,” I say. “Everything’s expensive.”
Dalton proceeds to buy a bagful of baked goods—bread and scones and cookies—and a few pounds of coffee. We get our snack and chat with an athletic senior couple who retired here after a chance visit. That is the story I hear, over and over, people who came to the Yukon for a work trip, for vacation, on a temporary placement, and never left.