Page 2 of Harper

“We’ll stop,” he whispers. “It’ll be okay. Hopefully.”

“Sure,” I agree through gritted teeth. “Whatever you say.”

But if they miss their ship, it’s not my fault.

I did my best to warn them.

***

Sure enough, two and a half hours later, we are speeding down Broadway—the main drag of Skagway—to get them to their ship before it leaves port. Halfway down the street, I hear the deep, long warning bellow of the ship’s horn.

Shit, shit, shit!

“Be ready to run!” I bark at the Martins, who gather their things together in something that finally resembles obedience and haste.

Skidding into the port parking lot, Sawyer makes it there by the skin of his teeth, both of us sighing with relief to see that the gangplank is still down. I jump out to open the van’s side door,and the Martins bolt like scared rabbits, leaving me and Sawyer behind without a word of thanks or a gratuity.

“Ew,” I groan, looking at the disaster in the back of the van.

The seats and floor are covered with crumbs, half-eaten baked goods, chip bags, empty water bottles, and a spilled can of Coke which has created two streams of sticky soda that wind all over the vehicle’s floor like twin brown rivers. It’s going to take an hour or more to clean this up.

“What a mess!”

“You’re surprised?”

I slam the back door shut and take my seat up front.

“They weren’t my favorite clients,” I say, marking their progress toward the ship through the windshield of the van. They’re waving their hands wildly at the Royal Caribbean port staff as they race toward the boat. “I tried to warn them they’d be cutting it close.”

“That guy didn’t give a shit what you had to say,” my brother tells me, sitting back to watch as the Martins board the ship just before the gangway lifts. “And I’m betting he gives us a crap rating on TripAdvisor.”

“For almost missing the boat?” I turn to Sawyer. “Or for my attitude?”

He shrugs. “You can be prickly, Harp.”

“I don’t mean to be.”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “I know.”

Putting the van in reverse, Sawyer backs out of the parking lot, then turns left onto the road that’ll take us home to Dyea.

***

“What a nightmare!” exclaims my sister, Parker.

Parker and I are the second and fourth oldest of six kids and share a private cabin at our family’s campground. It’s not fancy; there’s a small kitchen with a table for two, a sitting room with a loveseat, rocking chair, potbelly stove and TV, a bedroom withtwo twin beds, and a tiny bathroom with a shower, toilet, and sink. Super simple. It’s all we need.

“The guy was such a flipping know-it-all,” I say, my speech garbled as I brush my teeth. I spit into the basin and put my free hand on my hip. “I mean, give me a break! He knows the traffic patterns on the Klondike Highway better than me? A born and bred Alaskan? I don’t think so. Sawyer had to drive like a madman to get them to the port in time.”

“And no tip. Rough day,” says Parker, pulling the comforter up to her chin.

Tonight is chilly for June, with temperatures hovering in the low 50s. But we both like sleeping with the window cracked for fresh air.

“Annoying,” I mutter, rinsing off my toothbrush and popping it back into the plastic holder mounted on the wall. I turn off the bathroom light and jump into the bed next to my sister’s. Leaning up on my elbow, I look over at her. “Not to mention, it took over an hour to clean the mess in the back of the van. Yuck.” I reach for the lamp on the nightstand between us and pull the chain. A dull light blue light streams through the window, even though it’s almost eleven o’clock. Midnight sun. I love it. “What’s been going on here? Catch me up.”

Parker makes kissing noises from her bed. “Tanner and his fake girlfriend have been ‘going on.’ Big time.”

“I don’t think it’s fake anymore.”

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