“I’ll have four Filet-O-Fish, with two iced teas and two small fries!” Ittura booms out his order. The girl behind the cash register doesn’t blink. She doesn’t see him as odd. He’s wearing his old caribou parka and his leggings are turned with the caribou fur on the outside. He is wearing one newer item—a pair of Adidas sneakers. Doesn’t she see what a freak he is?

Ittura cups his hands around his mouth and yells at me, “Does that sound about right?” I look around the restaurant and nod. No one seems to notice us.

Ittura reaches into the hood of his caribou jacket and pulls out some money. I am standing next to him. I’m terrified, and the person who put me into a position of terror has become the only person who can help me. Ittura has become my saviour. God help me.

Ittura hands the tray to me. “Here, my boy, you carry it. You’re still a pup.” I can feel my heart pounding as I slide into the hard plastic seats of the booth. “Ittura, what is going on? Can people see us?”

“Of course they can, Father. Why wouldn’t they be able to see you?”

“But look at how we’re dressed! Don’t they see us?”

“Oh, some of them do. You know, the people who understand the spirits. They see us.”

“So not everyone can?” Ittura has shoved an entire Filet-O-Fish in his mouth. He nods.

“And the girl who took your order? She could see you?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Pokiak. She works here. Her mom was one of my wives.”

“She’s your daughter? How many wives have you had?” I can’t believe this conversation is happening. Happening inside a McDonald’s, with children and their moms and old white men sitting around us. I’m getting tired.

“Oh, so many of them. Some died. Some just left me. Some found better hunters than me and moved in with them. When I think about it, only Tupik stayed with me. That’s why I visit her. Pokiak is not my daughter, but I’ve loved her like she is. I killed her real dad so I could be with her mom.”

“Oh, God help us! I’m sitting in a McDonald’s with a murderer! Ittura, take me home. I can’t do it!”

“No, Father. Listen to me. It’s simple logic. We were in a winter camp and I was single then. Pokiak’s mother . . .” Ittura places his fingertips near his lips and kisses them. He flicks the air with them after his wet smooch. Spittle and fish crumbs sprinkle across the table like holy water from the aspergillum on Easter Sunday. “Magnificent. I needed a wife, so I killed her husband. What was that guy’s name? . . . Let me think.”

I lean in close to him and heatedly whisper, “This is not the time or place for confession, Ittura. Why are we here?”