Page 1 of Harper

Chapter 1

Harper

“I have to peeeeee!”

I look over my shoulder at the Martin’s youngest child, Bryce, and work hard not to purse my lips. We stopped for a bathroom break before leaving Whitehorse fifteen minutes ago, and he didn’t need to go. Now that we’re back on the road back to Skagway, under the gun to meet their ship, he does.

“Brycie, you need to ask politely,” advises his mother from the back of the van. I glance in the rearview mirror and note that she doesn’t look up from her phone. “Tell Miss Harper you need to use the restroom. And say please.”

Instead, Bryce kicks the back of my seat with gusto.

“Toi-let now! Toi-let now! Toi-let now!” he bellows to the machine gun rat-a-tat of his kicks.

“Ouch! Stop that!” I say, peering around the seat to give Bryce a stern look.

“But I have to gooooo!” Bryce screeches.

I glance at my brother, Sawyer, who’s behind the wheel. He rolls his eyes, but his tone is gentler than mine.

“Sure you can’t hold it, Bryce?” he asks.

“If you don’t stop the car right now, Mr. Sawyer, I’m gonna pee my pants,” threatens the six-year-old.

“Do not do that!” I warn him.

“There’s no need to scream at the little one,” says Mr. Martin, who sits beside his wife in the back seat, reading a French-Canadian newspaper. “Urination is a normal bodily function, Brycie. You can’t help it, and it’s not healthy to hold those toxins inside. Miss Harper and Mr. Sawyer are going tofind an appropriate place to stop so you can relieve yourself. Immediately.”

His voice doesn’t brook retort, and I really don’t want to lose whatever hard-earned tip we’ve got coming.

“Fine,” I say. “We’ll stop. Caribou RV Park is coming up in two minutes. There’s a washroom behind the camp store.”

And if you go quick, you toxic little brat, we can get to the border crossing before there’s a line.

“A store?” Amelia Martin, who’s been watching a non-stop stream of TikTok clips without earbuds, slouches in the seat behind my brother. “Does it have cool stuff?”

“It’s very small,” I say, omitting the fact that there’s a Swiss bakery on-site. If I tell them there are sweets available, I have a feeling they’ll all insist on getting out of the van for snacks, and we really don’t have the time for an extra excursion. We’re cutting it close as it is. “If want to get back to the Port of Skagway by eight, we really don’t have time for—”

“I wouldn’t mind a bathroom break,” says Mrs. Martin, sighing like we’ve been on the road for hours instead of minutes. “And I could use a drink. I’m parched.”

I try to catch her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Ma’am, your ship leaves at eight thirty and—”

“And it’s only five o’clock right now, correct? And you said it’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive back to Skagway,” says Mr. Martin, leaning closer to his wife to glare at me in the mirror’s reflection. “That means we have an extra hour. Plenty of time for a quick stop, for heaven’s sake.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say. “The border crossing can be—”

“Border? What border? The little shack we passed on the way up?”

What he fails to understand is that hundreds, if not thousands, of tourists take this route—from Skagway in theUS to the Yukon in Canada, and back again—every day, all summer long. With most of them having to return to their ships at approximately the same time, the traffic at the tiny border checkpoint between Canada and the United States can back up.

“Mr. Martin, I’m just concerned that—”

“Well, I’m not concerned,” says Mr. Martin. “We’re stopping so you can urinate, Brycie. Don’t worry. Madeline and Amelia, there’s plenty of time to shop and get a snack. Take your time. It’s our vacation, after all.”

Since the Martins don’t want to hear what I have to say, I turn to my brother. “Fingers crossed there’s no line tonight. You know how traffic can be.”

“Traffic! Jesus Christ! It’s Alaska,” says Mr. Martin with an amused snort. “What traffic?”

I’m about to protest one last time when I glance at Sawyer, who shakes his head, begging me to please shut up.

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