A bell chimes when I enter the tiny minimarket, which is hardly bigger than my kitchen and living room. Hank sits on a stool behind the counter, reading a National Enquirer. He worked for the oil industry for years before retiring to Whittier to live out the rest of his days fishing whenever he—and I quote—“goddamn wanted to.” He bought the market when I was in high school because he said he needed a distraction during the long winters here, when fishing was at a minimum.

“Bigfoot again?” I say, putting a can of tomato soup in a small shopping bag.

He folds the paper down, looks at me over the tops of his reading glasses. “Apparently he showed up at a baby shower in Juno.”

I shake my head. “Big guy must have run out of diapers.”

Hank barks a laugh. “Good to see you, Claire.”

“You, too, Hank. How’s business?”

“Oh, it’s all right.” He chews the inside of his cheek. “What’re you needing today?”

“Just the usual.” I grab pasta and a jar of spaghetti sauce, and when I put the items on the counter, I spy a 3 Musketeers bar under the counter. It’s in my hands and on top of the pasta before I can tell myself no. I might be the only human in Alaska and the lower forty-eight who appreciates the nougat-only candy bar, so when Hank brings them back from Anchorage, I can’t refuse. “And one of these.”

Hank smiles, and when he does, it gives him a twinkle in his blue eyes. With his white hair and a bushy beard that brushes the top of his chest, Hank could be Santa. The little kids in town have always thought so. He counts out my change, drops the coins into my open hand, and his big palm lingers. I can feel the heat of his skin. “Listen, Claire. You’ve overcome so much already, but I think you’re capable of whatever you set your mind to.” His gaze doesn’t break from mine.

“Well, thank you, Hank; that’s really nice of you to say.”

“Are you doing okay?” He raises his eyebrows. “With everything? Are you remembering?” He shifts his weight and the movement makes him look uncomfortable, which is far from the man I know, who once stood shoulder to shoulder with my dad, sheltering Tate against his own father.

I smile, amused, and hold up my notebook. “Well, I’m trying.”

“I mean with the other, oh”—he clears his throat—“it’s in your notebook, I’m sure.”