I turn away from them, my chest hurting with the effort to keep from crying, and hurry back to my apartment, write everything down I can remember. Mom lives in Whittier, and Ruth knows but didn’t tell me. They say Dad knows but it’s not true. He’s never told me and I know this for a fact. Don’t believe them.

Once it’s all down, I can breathe out. I sit back and let my pen fall to the desk. I rub my hand; it aches. The corners of my mouth are weighted into a frown, and I can’t lift out of the fog that surrounds me. I read the lines that explain this clinging sadness. Mom lives in Whittier, and Ruth knows but didn’t tell me.

I sit at my desk and stare out the window. A cruise ship is docked in the port, its length and height dwarfing the smaller boats that fill the slips in the harbor. Cars and trucks dominate the parking lots. In September, Whittier is still bustling with tourists and fishermen and adventure seekers, but by the end of next month, everyone will leave, taking their boats and their money and their wide-eyed enthusiasm for all things Alaska, and give us back our town.

A buzz from my phone shocks me out of my thoughts and reminds me to head up to the fifteenth floor for game night. There are only fourteen floors in BTI, but the elevator numbers skip thirteen, a nod to the more superstitious among us and a laughable oddity for the rest of us. I stand and stretch, but when I sigh, it catches on a sob. I cover my hand with my palm, wait for the feeling to pass. Sad. I am sad. I start to open my notebook when my phone buzzes again with a reminder. Game Night. Instead, I slide my notebook into my shoulder bag and head up to the community room. I don’t want to know why I’m sad. I want to see my friends and have some fun.

When I get there, Sefina, Harriet, and Kiko, who has taught the elementary-age kids for as long as I can remember, have already gathered, plus a few faces I don’t recognize. There are sandwiches, salads, chips, and sodas, and I fill my plate, grateful for the food.

“How are you doing, Claire?” Kiko says.

A question like this is difficult for me. So I evaluate how I feel at this moment—surrounded by friends, my belly full—and I answer honestly, “I’m really good, Kiko. How are you?”

Kiko studies me for a moment, and I try to understand her pause. Are things not good for her? Has she been ill? Could she have a tough group of kids this year?