“Am I up to it?” he asks.

I manage a laugh. “Yes, but that’s not what I meant. The doctor said—”

“That I should stay in bed. Which is exactly what I’m going to do. All night. I’m gonna take you someplace nice, too. Not my shitty apartment.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Too bad. I’m gonna.” He waves to the door. “Go on, then. Do what you gotta do. Come by at seven. Okay?”

I agree, and I leave him there, cleaning up his bar.

Kurt takes me “someplace nice”—a touristy inn outside the city. He’s rented the best room, with a Jacuzzi tub, king-size bed, chocolate-covered strawberries, and cheap champagne. Diana would roll her eyes if I told her, so I won’t. This is ours—our last night together—and it’s damn near perfect.

We finally start to drift off to sleep around four. I’m curled up against him, and I feel him reach for something on the bed stand. He nudges me, and when I open my eyes, he’s holding out a gold chain with a tiny martini glass on the end, an emerald chip for an olive.

“Couldn’t find a shot glass,” he says.

I smile, and he fastens it around my neck.

“Just something to remember me by,” he says.

“I’m not going to forget.”

“Good.”

He kisses me, then presses something else into my hand. I look down. It’s a key to his apartment. He catches my gaze and doesn’t say a word, just nods when he knows he’s said what he needs to say, that his door’s always open. Tears prickle my eyes. I drop my gaze. He pulls me over to him, my head against his chest, and we fall asleep.

I don’t sleep for long. I can’t. I have to leave at six for my flight. So I catnap just enough to let Kurt fall into a deep, exhausted slumber. Then I slip from his grasp and tiptoe to the bathroom, where I stashed my clothing.

Before I go, I leave something for him. A letter. Saying everything I can’t.

In that note, I tell him he’s an amazing guy. That I’ll never forget him. That I’m so glad I met him. I don’t say I’m sorry for what happened—he knows that, and this is about him, not me. I tell him it’s time to stop stashing away his money. Time to quit his job at the docks and go back to college for business, to get a job running a real bar and then someday open his own. That’s his dream, and the only thing holding him back is self-doubt.

Even if six years have passed since he went straight, Kurt still feels like a two-bit convict. He’s not. Never was. He screwed up as a kid—we all do. It was time to get past that and make a real life, for him and his son. Yes, his son. It was time for that, too. To fight for visitation rights. To stop listening to his ex tell him how wonderful her husband is, how much better a father he makes, how much better a role model. Kurt is the boy’s father. He’s supported his child since birth, and he deserves this, too. Time to take what he’s owed, as hard as that might be. He’ll be better for it. His son will be better for it. I have absolutely no doubt of that.

I put the letter on my pillow, resist the urge to risk waking him with a goodbye kiss, and then I leave.

Four

My journey starts with a rental car in the park where we’d last met, keys under the floor mat with instructions for me to drive not to my local airport but to one six hours away. Then I’m to catch a plane to Vancouver. When I land, I get the confirmation code for my second flight up to Whitehorse. That’s Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory.

Flying out of Vancouver, I saw nothing but city and mountain and sea. When we descended from the clouds? Green. At first, it looks like fields. Then we dip low enough for me to realize it’s trees. No fields in sight. No towns, either. Just trees in every direction.

I see mountain ranges, too. I only hope the snow on top of them is glacial ice and not a hint to expect winter already.

One thing I don’t see? Signs of people, not until we’re closer to the airport, where a few roads cut through the forest. They’re beige zigzags wandering through the hills, as if going nowhere in particular. There are lakes too, including one with bright green water, almost neon.

I’m so busy gawking that I barely notice we’re landing until we’re down. It’s a small airport with only a couple of baggage carousels. The sheriff meets me at one. He doesn’t ask how my flight went. His greeting is: “Got a six-hour drive ahead of us. Get your bags and then we’ll hit a drive-thru for dinner.”

“I ate earlier. I’ll just grab something at our destination.”

“Nothing will be open when we get there. You want to eat on the way? Your options are pop, chips, and whatever else you can buy at a gas station.”

“Okay, we’ll hit a drive-thru.” My bag arrives. I grab it and then ask, “How’s Diana?”

“Fine.”

That’s all I get. As we’re heading out, I say, “Do you have a name?”

“Most people do.”

We cross the road to the parking lot.

“I could just call you sheriff for six months.”

“Works for me.” He pops the back on a little SUV. “Dalton,” he says at last. “Eric Dalton.”

Then he gets into the car. It’s going to be a long six hours.

We hit a drive-thru and head out. The city fades in a blink, giving way to forest and mountain. When something black shambles onto the road, I jolt forward in my seat, saying, “Is that a … bear?”