Ittura looks at me and I see sadness pass over his face. His hollow eyes look even hollower. I turn my head away from him.

“I’m walking you on the wild side, Father. This is the beginning. Kakagun! That’s it!” Ittura smacks his hands together. “His name was Kakagun!” Ittura’s face brightens.

“Let me try to understand,” I say. “You’re a lonely wifeless hunter in need of a wife, so you kill that girl’s father,” I point to Pokiak, “and now all these years later you are telling me about it. Why?”

“To help you. Here, eat your Filet-O-Fish before it gets too cold. Cold grease is like whale blubber on a hot day.” Ittura pushes the little cardboard packet toward me. I reach in and take a bite.

“I don’t understand any of it. When are we going home?”

Ittura shakes his head. “Oh, we are on a journey, my boy. You have a great deal to learn. Now let me finish the story. I become a stepdad to Pokiak, but there is one understanding that Inuit have that you white guys don’t. That, too, is simple logic.”

I find myself thinking that if I indulge his stories, maybe I will get out of this McDonald’s faster. Maybe I will get out of this surreal world and be able to get home quicker. “If it means getting out of here, Ittura, tell me the rest of your Pokiak story.”

“Well, I had other children with her mom, you know. We had a couple of boys and one girl. Pretty children and clever. Oh, I loved those kids. They were our fun. When we come together as a man and a woman in a certain way, it’s not about love. It’s about companionship and, you know . . . well you won’t know, but if you work at it, the sex can be great! Sex requires thought and you have to finesse your moves. Most things in life are about finesse.”

“I am a priest, Ittura. Stop that kind of talk.”

“Right, well, the rule and the logic are simple. I killed Pokiak’s dad, so she had the right to kill me. And she did!”

I feel the Filet-O-Fish hurl out of my mouth. I watch it catapult into the yellow hair of the woman sitting behind Ittura. She jumps up and spins toward me. “What the fuck, buddy?” she yells. I feel her hand smack hard against my right cheek.

“I’m sorry, miss. Truly, I’m sorry. I thought I was going to choke. So I . . . I’m so very sorry.”

“And look at you, buddy.” The woman, who must be twenty-something, flicks two of her fingers against my black collar. “A man of the cloth! Well, I got one thing to say to all of your kind—fuck you!”

“Again, I’m so sorry. Can I pay for your meal?” I don’t know what to do. Panic is all over me and I can’t stop myself.