‘You’re right, we do.’ He beams. ‘Like father like daughter.’

I love it when he says that.

We arrive back in Anchorage’s concrete sprawl as the light’s already fading. Adam drives to the centre of town, and Jaxon directs him to his father’s usual drinking spots. I wait in the car while they go in to ask the staff if they’ve seen Doug, showing them his picture. Soon, we run out of bars in the city and head out to the industrial area where there are a few cheap and nasty ones, fluorescent lights advertising sexy pole-dancing girls. No luck. After an hour or two, there are no more bars left to try.

‘Let’s check back at your place,’ my father says to Jaxon.

We pull into a snowy driveway, the solitary streetlight flickering, and I shiver slightly, quickly zipping up my jacket.

‘Careful, don’t trip,’ my father says as we step over half-chewed plastic bags, open tuna cans and other contents spilling out. ‘Critters got into the trash. Remind me and I’ll get you some bear-resistant trash cans,’ he says to Jaxon.

Jaxon turns on the porch light and I take in the scene. I’m in a Hollywood movie again, but this is no rom-com. An American flag is draped unevenly over the rails, and cigarette butts and beer bottles are strewn around an old rocking chair. Opening the front door, the picture gets worse. It’s a real dump, more like where I expected my father to live, complete with a tall tower of empty pizza boxes.

‘You must love pizza,’ I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

‘Over it,’ Jaxon says, his eyes dim. He’s no longer the excited puppy dog, more like a pound dog, scared and sad.

We stand in the lounge and call out Doug’s name, but the house is eerily silent. Jaxon runs up the stairs two at a time, and reappears shrugging.

Adam goes to the kitchen where the sink is overflowing with dishes. He opens the fridge door, releasing a cloud of sour milk and rotting food.

‘Bud, let’s throw a few things out,’ my father calls, ‘so the place won’t stink when he gets home.’

Jaxon doesn’t answer. He’s back on the phone, holding a tattered address book that must be his father’s, repeating the story again and again, ending with a ‘Let me know if you hear anything’ each time.

My father hands me a milk carton and I try to stuff it in the bin, but there’s no space. I take out the garbage bag—it’s dripping from underneath with who knows what. I find a roll of bags under the sink, wet from a leak, tear one off and throw in the carton. ‘Should I do separate bags for recyclables?’ I ask.