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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

I chug it down, wipe my forearm across my mouth, leaving a trail of green sludge, and set the cup in the sink.

“Follow me!” she shouts.

It is 3:05 a.m.

I follow her to a utility room.

“Eyes closed,” she barks, then sprays me with a can of Extra Strength OFF. Many of the snippets I read about summertime in Alaska warned of the giant murderous mosquitos.

After returning the favor, I follow Ingrid through the living room, out a sliding glass door, and onto the back deck.

I stop, transfixed.

The deck is nestled up to the languid Chena River, which is two-hundred-feet wide. Across from the river are thousands of evergreen trees, giving way to halos of red and orange.

I am unable to speak.

A long minute passes in silence.

“Here it comes,” Ingrid whispers, wrapping her hands around my back.

And then, there it is.

Just the slightest edge of radiant white.

The sun.

“I never thought I would see it,” I utter, my voice barely audible.

For the next twenty minutes, I watch the sun inch above the horizon. The reds, pinks, and oranges are slowly gobbled up by the advancing blue as the sun moves above the tree line and inches across the rippling water. As it crawls to the near shore and up the small embankment, I reach out my hand and plunge it into the light. I can feel the rays in my palm. They are made of granite.

“Here, come sit.”

I didn’t realize Ingrid had disappeared and I turn around. Behind her I notice two chaise lounges and two plates of filet mignon.

If she notices the tears in my eyes, she doesn’t comment on them.

Ingrid made a small plate for Lassie, and the three of us eat in silence.

At 3:58 a.m., the dive watch Ingrid gave to me for Christmas beeps three times.

“You should go lie down,” she says.

“I’m gonna sleep out here,” I tell her. “Under the sun.”

:03

June 20th

Sunrise 3:07 a.m.

“Ouch!” I scream, wincing.

“Oh, stop, you big baby,” Ingrid says, applying another layer of Aloe Vera to my face and neck.

“You aren’t the one who has third-degree burns.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t put any sunscreen on.”

“I can’t believe you let me sit out in the sun for six hours before you realized I was turning into a tomato.”

“I fell asleep. And I didn’t know it was going to be eighty-five degrees. This is Alaska."

“I told you it was going to be hot.” I checked the weather the day before we left. The ten-day forecast called for sunny skies and temperatures in the high eighties.

“I thought hot in Alaska meant, like, fifty degrees.”

“Wait,” I say, “if you fell asleep outside, then why aren’t you sunburned?”

“I put sunscreen on,” she says, trying to turtle her head into her body.

I scoff.