Two blocks later, we come to the Cushman Street Bridge. The river is twice as wide as it was outside our cabin and the two-lane bridge is a quarter-mile long. It’s the first bridge I’ve seen since I’d run to the Potomac River after learning my mother’s body was pulled from the river. That day, I remember staring at the concrete bridge straddling the Potomac and visualized her throwing herself into the water. I imagined her with this huge rock of guilt from abandoning me, from running out on her freak-show son, and how she couldn’t live with herself anymore. I remember back to something my father said a couple years after she walked out on us.

“It’s her loss, not yours.”

Was my current situation any different? Sure, my kid was the size of my fingernail right now, but it was still my child cooking in there. In thirty years, would it be Ingrid telling our child, “It’s his loss, not yours”?

Of course, it wasn’t my mother who was pulled from the river. No, she was still alive. And it turns out, she may have done far worse things than simply abandoning me. But this wasn’t about my mom. This was about Ingrid and me. And our baby.

Lassie and I make our way onto the bridge, run to the halfway point, and then stop.

The heart of Fairbanks is much more flavorful. The bridge is lined with slim silver poles with small yellow flags commemorating the Olympics. Each flag has a picture of a different event. The one closest to me has a picture of two men, their heads a foot apart, a large rubber band stretched around both men’s ears.

I guess this is the infamous Ear Pull.

Flower pots packed with screaming purple flowers hang from the guardrails. A Key Bank, Radisson Hotel, another competing hotel, and two other businesses huddle on the corner of the intersection up ahead. The parking lots are overrun with cars, and I suspect it has to do with the Olympics being held down the street.

Across the river, the sun is two inches above the tree line, reflecting off the small ripples of movement on the water.

Lassie lies down on the concrete next to me.

He knows to leave me alone, to let me stew.

All I can think about is Ingrid, how she was back at the cabin, alone, scared, and yes, abandoned.

I lean my head back.

“I’m such a dick,” I say to the soft blue sky. I want to teleport back to the cabin. I want to tell Ingrid how sorry I am.

I peer down at my watch,

It’s 3:21 a.m.

“Let’s go,” I say to Lassie.

He shakes his head. He’s exhausted.

I lean down and pick him up.