Kaneq was a different town than it had been when they moved here, and her father hated each and every change. He hated that there was now a foot ferry that brought tourists from Homer. He hated that you had to slow down for them because they walked in the middle of the road and wandered around googly-eyed, pointing to every eagle and hawk and seal. He hated that the new fishing-charter business in town was thriving and sometimes there wasn’t an empty seat at the diner. He hated people who came to visit—lookie-loos, he called them—but even more, he hated the outsiders who’d moved in, building houses near town, taming their lots with fences and building garages.

On this warm evening, a few hardy tourists moved down Main Street, taking pictures and talking loudly enough to startle the dogs tied up along the roadside. They gathered outside the brand-new Snackle Shop (where you could buy snacks and fishing tackle).

A sign on the Kicking Moose Saloon read TOWN MEETING SUNDAY NIGHT. 7 P.M.

“What are we? Seattle?” Dad muttered.

“Our last meeting was two years ago,” Mama said. “When Tom Walker donated the lumber to repair the transient dock.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he said, pulling into a parking space. “You think I need you telling me that? I can hardly forget Tom Walker acting like a big shot, shoving his money in our noses.” He parked in front of the burnt-out Kicking Moose Saloon. The bar’s door was flung wide open in welcome.

Leni followed her parents into the saloon.

For all the changes that had taken place in town, this was the one place that had remained the same. No one in Kaneq cared about the blackened walls or the smell of char, as long as the booze flowed.

The place was already packed. Men and women (mostly men) in flannel shirts were bellied up to the bar. A few scrawny dogs lay curled beneath the barstools and out of the way. Everyone was talking at once and music played in the background. A dog whined along to the sound, howled once before a boot shut him up.

Mad Earl saw them and waved.

Dad nodded and headed to the bar.

Old Jim was bartending, as he had for decades. With no teeth and rheumy eyes and a beard as sparse as his vocabulary, he was slow behind the bar but congenial. Everyone knew Old Jim would give them a drink on credit or take some moose meat in trade. Rumor was, it had been that way at the Moose since Tom Walker’s dad built the saloon in 1942.

“Whiskey, double,” Dad yelled out to Jim. “And a Rainier beer for the missus.” He slapped a handful of wadded-up pipeline bills on the table.