The ninety-mile trek across the ice road to Yellowknife is slow and uneventful.  The city is the capital of the Northwest Territories and the only place where I can outfit myself to survive the winter alone.  It’s the only real city for hundreds of miles, complete with tourism and a Wal-Mart.  I try to stay away from tourist areas even this late in the season, but sometimes it can’t be helped.  Still, it makes my skin crawl to be around a lot of people.

Too many years locked away in close quarters with the other murderers, thieves, dealers, and all-around criminals took its toll on my ability to socialize with “normal” society, not that my childhood was normal.  Fuck, I sure hope my upbringing wasn’t the norm though it would explain why people are so shitty to each other.

I complete most of my shopping at Co-op and then head to the Yellowknife Book Cellar.  It’s quiet inside—far too cold now for the tourists to be looking for a summer read—and I’m grateful for it.  I browse for an hour before I pick out six books ranging from popular fiction to a non-fiction title about the Underground Railroad.  I don’t read a lot during the winter months, but it’s less frustrating than trying to get the radio to pick up a signal.

I check my list against the items in the back of the Jeep, trying to figure out why I have a niggling feeling in the back of my head that I’ve forgotten something.  I’ve already checked three times, but I’ve been paranoid about forgetting something important ever since I neglected to buy black pepper two years ago.  Though it only impacted the seasoning of my food, it had me worried that I would forget something needed for survival.

Sometimes, paranoia is a good thing.

I climb back into the Jeep and let it run for a minute to warm up, then head back to the Yellowknife Highway.  Hopefully, whatever I have forgotten can be found in Whatì, my last stop.

I get off the highway near Edzo and head off-road, following the edge of the lake for a few miles until I get to the top.  I turn the Jeep east over rocky terrain for about three miles until I hit a dried-up riverbed.  In a few weeks, it will be an ice-road and traveled only by the very brave.  I follow the bed until I get to a dirt road.   I use the road for a few more miles until I get to its northernmost point.  If I were to turn right and drive east, I would come to a small lake, veer left and off the road again to my cabin near the rocks.  Instead, I turn west and head toward Whatì in the Tłįchǫ Lands—the nearest settlement to my cabin.

Whatì is a hunting and fishing village set on the edge of Lac La Martre, one of the largest lakes in the territory.  With just under five hundred residents, mostly Dene people, Whatì is a self-governed community with a chief and a council.  I can’t speak their language—I can’t even properly pronounce the name of the settlement or the region—but the people seem to have accepted me in the area anyway.

Thanks to Margot.

The Tłįchǫ Lands are a great place for all kinds of fishing and hunting.  Caribou are plentiful as are black bears and wolves.  The lake near Whatì has the best trout and pike fishing around, and the settlement has been pushing the summer tourist trade.  Despite the drought in recent years, trees are still in abundance, and I can find plenty of fuel for heating and cooking.  If I’m desperate for some commodity during the winter months, and the Jeep won’t run or runs out of fuel, I can make it to Whatì in less than a day on foot.  When I first traveled to the area, I stayed there and learned how to hunt, fish, and track game.  I still occasionally make contact with the people who taught me.

Glancing down the road, I briefly consider heading into the small fishing village.  I could go down to the docks and buy some fish to supplement the rest of my winter stores.  Margot would almost certainly be there, and she’d give me that look she gives when she thinks she knows what I want.  She’d assume I’d come to see her, and she wouldn’t be completely wrong.  Ultimately, it isn’t fair to lead her on.  She knows I’m not going to change my mind and come back to live in Whatì.

Regardless, I wasn’t planning any social visits on this trip, and I’m anxious to return to my own space.  The cabin is a great place to be alone, which is how I have lived for the past three years.  Three years since I moved out of Margot’s abode and into my silent, isolated cabin.  It is best for everyone that I remain on my own.

Safer, too.

I park my Jeep in one of three spaces at Broken Toy’s Gas and Goods off the Yellowknife Highway just before the actual settlement of Whatì.  Broken Toy’s is always my last stop because of the fuel and because I like the shop owner.  I gas up the Jeep and fill the spare gas can before going inside.

Warmth greets me as I open the door to the shop.

“How’s it goin’, Bishop?”  Kirk waves from behind the counter.

“Same,” I reply bluntly.

Kirk has long, black hair and is usually wearing a cowboy hat when not outside.  He came from somewhere in Ohio but lived in New Orleans before the hurricane wiped him out.  Though I know he’s done time from the prison-style tattoos on his arms and neck, I have no idea where or for what.  The first time we encountered each other, we just seemed to know we had similar roots.  We’d never talk about it, but it has given us an unspoken bond.  It’s obvious that he’s hiding from his past the same as I am.

“Supply trip?” Kirk asks.

“Why else would I be here?”  I shake my head.  I don’t care for small talk, and Kirk knows it.

He laughs and motions me over to the counter.

“I’ve been working on a new piece.”  He pulls a small canvas out from under the counter.  On the canvas is a sketch of a bunch of caribou and animated snowmen, but it’s nothing like the traditional art of the First Nations.  Kirk’s style is a little edgier.  The caribou are stylized cartoons with zombie eyes and wearing ragged parkas.

“I’m thinking of using a lot of greens and reds,” Kirk says.  “You know—for Christmas!”

“You aren’t right.”  I laugh and shake my head.  The dude is undoubtedly talented, but I’m not so sure he sells many of his works around here.

“Maybe I’ll do your portrait,” Kirk says.  “With your build, manly scruff, and those dreamy blue eyes, all the girls in the territory will fight over it!”

Kirk uses his hand to fan his face and acts like he’s hyperventilating.

“Fuck you.”  I flip him off and look back to the shelves.

“I’m just a broken toy!  Says so on the sign outside!”  Kirk grins and stashes the canvas below the counter as I head to the supplies.

There are very few patrons at the small general store and gas station.  Kirk’s assistant Marty is stocking one of the refrigerated units with bottled coffee.  I recognize a couple of locals who are shoving canned goods into a basket, but I don’t bother to acknowledge them.  Two men in snow-camouflage jackets catch my attention.

“Need a guide?” Kirk addresses one of the men in camo.

“What for?”

“Guides know the area,” he says.  “Show you the better hunting spots.”

Kirk lowers his voice, but I don’t need to hear to know what he’s saying.  I look over my list and grab a couple more items off the shelves as the conversation continues out of earshot.  The mumbling ends abruptly, but I don’t look up.  I still hear the two men approach me.

“I hear you can show us around.”  The one who addresses me is the older of the two.  They look enough alike that they must be related, but the age difference isn’t enough to be father and son.  Older brother, maybe.  They’re both rough looking—unshaven and in need of the shower facilities in the back.

“Hunting season is well over,” I say.

“Yeah, but we’re still here for two more days.”  The younger one sneers at me as he speaks, as if I should know his travel plans.  “No one up here cares about the regs.”

“It will take two days to get you to the right spot,” I tell him.  “Looks like the storm season is going to be early this year.  Even if I cared to fuck up my business by ignoring the season dates, I’m not going out and getting caught up in a blizzard for days.”

“Well, fuck you for nothing!”

I raise an eyebrow at the younger guy but say nothing as he spits toward my boots, huffs, and then both men storm out of the shop.  I glare up at Kirk, who just shrugs.

“I thought you might need the business,” he says.

“I don’t.”  I close my eyes briefly before getting back to the task at hand.  “Save it for the spring.  Right now, I need kerosene.”

“I’ve got five gallons set aside for you,” Kirk says.  He yells over at Marty and tells him to load the kerosene into my Jeep.  Kirk looks around the shop, but it’s pretty empty inside after the abrupt departure of the hunters.  He leans close to me and speaks quietly.  “I’ve got a little something extra for you.”

Kirk reaches under the counter and pulls out a paper sack.  He tilts it toward me and opens the top, revealing two bottles of Jameson whiskey.

“Nice!”  I smile and nod.  “How much?”

“For you?  Seventy-five.”

“You got it.”

Whatì is a completely dry community and prides itself on the lack of alcohol.  Alcohol and freezing temperatures are usually a bad combination and can even bring on hypothermia under the right conditions.  I don’t know where Kirk gets his hooch, especially the name brand stuff.  I don’t have the heart to tell him I grabbed a bottle in Yellowknife, but I’m grateful that he thought to save me a couple bottles.  I’m not a big drinker, but the burn of whiskey still warms me during the long nights.  Maybe it’s only psychological, but it makes me feel better and helps me sleep when the wind is howling.  Besides, I like supporting Kirk’s business, and I’m not going to buy his artwork.

“Anything else?” Kirk asks.

“Just cigarettes,” I say.  “I can find the rest myself.”

“There’s a carton in the bag already.”  Kirk moves one bottle aside so I can see the carton behind it.

“Cool.”  We fist bump, and I look back to the goods.

At the end of one aisle is a small selection of pet products, and I suddenly recall what I had forgotten before—cat supplies.  I look at a bag of kitten food.  If I get it, Kirk will ask me a bunch of questions that I won’t want to answer.  I’m not embarrassed by the idea of owning a pet, but talking to people has never been my thing, and we’ve already chatted enough.  With my work season over, I’m already getting myself into a mindset of no talking, and I don’t want to break that.

I pick up a small container of Sheba brand cat food.  On the front of the package is a grey cat with green eyes lying on its side and staring at the camera.  It looks like an older version of the kitten at my cabin, but this isn’t kitten food.  I place the container back on the shelf.  There are large plastic jugs of cat litter, but it wouldn’t last long, and the sawdust seemed to work well enough.  I select a plastic dishpan to replace the metal one though—eventually the kitten’s claws against the metal bake pan will drive me insane.

I go back to my shopping.  A moment later, the bell on the door jingles as—oddly enough—an obviously non-indigenous woman walks in.  I can’t recall ever seeing a woman who wasn’t a local in this part of town, not this time of year.  The woman has the pale look of a tourist but isn’t acting like one. She keeps her head down as she makes her way to the back of the shop to browse through the snacks.  Her freckled cheeks are red from the cold, and her brown hair is long and braided down her back with wisps sticking out around her face.

She’s cute and totally out of place in this environment.  I hope she has more cold-weather gear.  Her coat isn’t heavy enough and her gloves are far too thin for the winter weather.

I finish my shopping without getting any cat food.  Instead, I get a large box of dry milk and a couple pints of fresh.  The little bugger doesn’t have much of a chance anyway, and if it dies, at least I won’t be stuck with supplies I can’t use.

As I head up to the register, the woman is still in the aisle of snacks.  She keeps glancing up at Kirk behind the register.  She shuffles her feet and reaches for a bag of trail mix.

I roll my eyes.  She’s a crappy shoplifter.  I’m not sure there is any way she could be more obvious.  Kirk is staring right at her as she shuffles her feet back and forth.  She replaces the trail mix and heads around to the other side of the rack.  She’s out of direct sight, and Kirk directs his gaze to the convex mirror at the corner of the shop.

She turns her back toward the mirror and shifts her weight, leaning toward the shelf full of pre-packaged baked goods.  I don’t see her hands, but I’m still pretty sure she picked something up.  A moment later, she moves to the refrigerated section, grabs the cheapest bottle of water, and heads up to the counter.

Kirk has about half of my items rung up already, and he stares at the woman as she smiles and places a dollar next to the cash register.

“Here you go!” she says, still smiling.  She gives a little wave as she takes a step toward the door.

“That’s another three bucks for the donuts you’re stealing.”

“What?”  She straightens her shoulders and looks with indignity at Kirk.  “What are you talking about?”

“The powdered donuts in your left pocket,” Kirk says as he places a meaty palm on the countertop.

She touches the outside of the pocket, covering the bulge with her hand.  Her eyes widen, and she appears to be genuinely shocked when she pulls out the package.

“I…I don’t know how those got there.”  She looks like she’s going to burst into tears, but there is no way Kirk is going to let her off the hook.  Regardless of how pretty she may be, Kirk likes his cash, and I have a feeling that the dollar she placed on the counter is the only one she has.

“I’ve got it,” I say abruptly.

Kirk looks at me with obvious shock.  I ignore his stare and grab the package of donuts from the woman.  She also stares at me, her mouth slightly open but unable to form any words.

“Just put it with my stuff.”  I cross my arms and wait for Kirk to start moving again.

“I shouldn’t put up with this shit,” he mumbles but rings up my remaining purchases, donuts included, and gives me the total.

I hand him the cash, hand the woman her donuts, and walk out.

She follows me.

“Thanks for that,” she says.  She stands off to one side as I open the back of the Jeep and begin to shift items around to make room for the rest of my supplies.

“It didn’t cost much.”  I don’t make eye contact with her, hoping she’ll just leave if I ignore her, but she doesn’t.

“I’m Seri,” she says.  She laughs nervously.  “It’s spelled with an e, not an i like the phone personality.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know,” she says as she takes a step closer, “the woman’s voice on the phone that gives you directions and whatnot.  It’s short for Serenity, which sounds kind of pretentious, so I just go by Seri.”

I stop loading for a minute and look at her.  She’s still smiling, but it’s a nervous smile, not a friendly one.  She wants something—more food, money, a place to stay—but I don’t care.  I don’t need to get involved in anyone’s drama.

“I don’t own a phone,” I tell her.  “Never have.”

“Oh.”

I lean down and pick up a box of supplies.  I have to shuffle a few more things around, but I have almost everything in the back.  The booze and cigarettes can go in the front seat.

“I ran out of money getting here,” the woman says, trying desperately to continue the conversation I keep trying to end.  “I didn’t realize there wasn’t much work to be found in the winter, and—”

“I really don’t care.”  I wish she would just be on her way, but I made the mistake of playing the nice guy, and she’s hoping to get more out of me.  I could probably get something out of her if I was that kind of guy, but I’m not.  I don’t pay for sex, not even as barter, no matter how long it has been.

“It’s just…you’re the first person who’s helped me at all since I got here, and I thought maybe…maybe…”

“Look,” I say as I toss the rest of my stuff in the back of the Jeep and turn to face her, “I really don’t need to hear your life story.  I don’t give a shit.  You don’t owe me anything, so just be on your way wherever you are going.”

In a flash, her expression changes completely.

“Just another self-serving asshole, aren’t you?” she says, speaking through clenched teeth and pointing an accusing finger at me.  “You could at least try to be polite!  I thought this place was known for its hospitality!”

“You aren’t in Whatì, and I don’t live there.”

“Close enough!”  She practically spits the words at me.

I stare at her for a moment.  She has intense green eyes—not as bright as the kitten’s, but definitely notable.  Her eyes held a soft and curious look while inside, but now they are dark and blazing.  She’s so enraged, she doesn’t even look like the same person anymore, but I can’t figure out why she could possibly be so pissed at me.

Then again, most people take their anger out on whomever is closest to them, and not the person who actually makes them angry.  Whatever her issue is, it’s not my problem, and I want nothing to do with her.

“Fuck off.”  I turn away.  I’m not going to be drawn into an obviously pointless argument, and this woman apparently has a screw loose.  I try to ignore the fact that she isn’t moving along as I finish loading my Jeep and then make my way to the driver’s side door.  She follows me.

I continue to ignore her presence as I climb inside and shut the door.  She keeps staring as I start the engine and pull away without letting it warm up first.

I glance in my rearview mirror one last time to see her smiling and waving.

“Thanks for the donuts!”

I shake my head as I drive away, realizing my heart is pounding rapidly in my chest.  The whole encounter has left me strangely unnerved, and I reach into the bag that holds my booze and cigarettes on the passenger seat.  I steer with my knee as I get out a smoke and light it.  I cough when I inhale, a reminder that I should probably stop buying the damn things, but winter brings long stretches of boredom, and smoking helps pass the time.

I glance in the rearview mirror again and watch the strange woman disappear behind me, grateful to be away from her.