Northern Lights

Jesse's pets throughout breakfast.
    A plate of pancakes and a charming young boy were a much better way to start the day than a recurring nightmare. His mood improved, Nate was on the point of calling Hopp when she came through the door.
    "Heard you were up and around," she said, and tossed back her hood. Snow showered from her parka. "You look some sturdier than you did yesterday."
    "Sorry I faded on you."
    "No problem. Got yourself a good night's sleep, decent breakfast, good company," she added with a grin for Jesse. "You up for a tour?"
    "Sure." He got up to pile on his outdoor gear.
    "Skinnier than I expected."
    He looked over at Hopp. He knew he looked gaunt. A man dropped more than ten pounds from a tuned-up one-sixty on a five-ten frame, gaunt was the usual result. "Won't be, I keep eating short stacks."
    "Lot of hair."
    He pulled on his watch cap. "It just keeps growing out of my head."
    "I like hair on a man." She yanked open the door. "Red hair, too."
    "It's brown," he corrected automatically, and pulled the cap lower.
    "All right. Get off your feet awhile Rose," she called back, then trudged out into the wind and snow.
    The cold struck him like a runaway train. "Jesus Christ. It freezes your eyeballs."
    He jumped into the Ford Explorer she'd parked at the curb. "Your blood's thin yet."
    "It could be thick as paste, and it'd still be fucking cold. Sorry."
    "I don't blush at frank language. Of course it's fucking cold; it's December." With her blasting laugh, she started the engine. "We'll start the tour on wheels. No point stumbling around in the dark."
    "How many do you lose to exposure and hypothermia in a year?"
    "Lost more than one to the mountains, but those mostly tourists or crazies. Man called Teek got himself stupid drunk one night, three years ago this January, and froze to death in his own outhouse, reading Playboy magazine. But he was an idiot. People who live here know how to take care of themselves, and cheechakos who make it through a winter learn—or leave."
    "Cheechakos?"
    "Newcomers. You don't want to take nature casually, but you learn to live with it, and if you're smart, you make it work for you. Get out in it—ski, snowshoe, skate the river, ice fish." She shrugged. "Take precautions and enjoy it, because it's not going anywhere."
    She drove with steady competence on the snow-packed street. "There's our clinic. We got a doctor and a practical nurse."
    Nate studied the small, squat building. "And if they can't handle it?"
    "Fly to Anchorage. We've got a bush pilot lives outside of town. Meg Galloway."
    "A woman?"
    "You sexist, Ignatious?"
    "No." Maybe. "Just asking."
    "Meg's Charlene's daughter. Damn good pilot. A little crazy, but a good bush pilot's got to be, in my opinion. She'd've brought you in from Anchorage, but you were a day later than we'd hoped, and she had another booking, so we called Jerk in from Talkeetna. You'll probably see Meg at the town meeting later."
    And won't that be fun, Nate thought.
    "The Corner Store—got everything you need, or they'll find a way to get it. Oldest building in Lunacy. Trappers built it back in the early 1800s, and Harry and Deb have added to it since they bought the place in '83."
    It was twice as big as the clinic, and two stories. Lights were already gleaming in the windows.
    "Post office runs out of the bank there for now, but we're going to break ground for one this summer. And the skinny place next to it's The Italian Place. Good pizza. No deliveries outside of town."
    "Pizza parlor."
    "New York Italian, came up here three years back on a hunting trip. Fell in love. Never left. Johnny Trivani. Named it Trivani's at the start, but everybody called it The Italian Place, so he went with it. Talks about adding on a bakery. Says he's going to get himself one of those Russian mail-order brides you hear about on the Internet. Maybe he will."
    "Will there be fresh blinis?"
    "We can hope. Town newspaper runs out of that storefront," she said, pointing. "The couple who run it are out of town. Took the kids to San Diego for the school break right after Christmas. KLUN—local radio—broadcasts from that one there. Mitch Dauber runs it almost single-handed. He's an entertaining son of a bitch most of the time."
    "I'll tune in."
    She circled around, headed back the way they'd come. "About a half mile west of town is the school—kindergarten through twelfth. We've got seventy-eight students right now. We hold adult classes there, too. Exercise