It was rough going, a track barely wider than the bus. Branches snapped into the windshield, scraped along the bus’s sides. Their banner was ripped off, flew up, stuck in the trees. The driveway was more pits and boulders than dirt; the old bus was constantly rising and thumping down. Tires crunched slowly over exposed roots and rocky outcroppings as they drove into the dark shadows cast by the trees.

At the end of their driveway, they drove into the sunlight and onto a real dirt road.

They rumbled past the Walker metal gate and the Birdsall sign. Leni leaned forward, excited to see the marshes and airfields that signaled the outskirts of Kaneq.

Town! Only a few days ago it had seemed worse than an outpost, but it didn’t take much time in the Alaskan bush to reassess one’s opinion. Kaneq had a store. Leni could get some film and maybe a candy bar.

“Hang on,” Dad said as he turned left into the trees.

“Where are we going?” Mama asked.

“To tell Bo Harlan’s family thank you. I’ve brought his father a half gallon of whiskey.”

Leni stared out the dirty window. Dust turned the view into a haze. For miles there was nothing but trees and bumps. Every now and then a vehicle was rotting at the side of the road in the tall grass.

There were no houses or mailboxes, just dirt trails here and there that veered off into the trees. If people lived out here, they didn’t want you to find them.

The road was rough: two beaten-down tire tracks on rocky, uneven ground. As they climbed in elevation, the trees grew thicker, began to block out more and more of the sun. They saw the first sign about three miles in: NO TRESPASSING. TURN AROUND. YES, WE MEAN YOU. PROPERTY PROTECTED BY DOGS AND GUNS. HIPPIES GO HOME.

The road ended at the crest of a hill with a sign that read, TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN.

“Jesus,” Mama said. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

A man with a rifle appeared in front of them, stood with his legs in a wide stance. He had frizzy brown hair that puffed out from beneath a dirty trucker’s cap. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I think we should turn around,” Mama said.

Dad leaned his head out the window. “We’re here to see Earl Harlan. I was a friend of Bo’s.”

The man frowned, then nodded and stepped aside.

“I don’t know, Ernt,” Mama said. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Dad worked the gearshift. The old bus grumbled and rolled forward, jouncing over rocks and hillocks.