In the dark, with only the woodstove’s glow for light, it took her eyes a moment to adjust.
Dad was dressed all in black, with an Alaska Aces baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. He was carrying a big gear bag that clanked as he walked.
He opened the front door and stepped out into the night.
Leni climbed down the loft stairs and went quietly to the window and peeked out. A full moon shone down on the muddy yard; here and there, stubborn patches of crusty brown snow caught the light. There were piles of junk all around: boxes of fishing tackle and camping supplies, rusting metal crates and contraptions, a broken gate, another bicycle Dad had never gotten around to fixing, a stack of blown-out tires.
Dad tossed the gear bag into the bed of the truck, then slogged over to the plywood shed where they kept their tools.
A moment later he came out carrying an ax over one shoulder.
He climbed into the truck and drove away.
*
THE NEXT MORNING, Dad was in a good mood. His shaggy black hair was drawn into a weirdo Jesus-samurai topknot that had fallen to one side and looked like a puppy’s ear. His thick black beard was full of wood shavings, and so was his mustache. “There’s our sleepyhead. Did you stay up reading last night?”
“Yeah,” Leni said, eyeing him uneasily.
He pulled her into his arms, danced with her until she couldn’t help smiling.
The worry she’d had since last night slowly released.
What a relief. And on the first Saturday in April; one of her favorite days of the year.
Salmon Days. Today the town would come together to celebrate the upcoming salmon season. The festivities had begun under another name, started by the Native tribe that had once lived here; they had come together to ask for a good fishing season. Now, though, it was just a town party. On today of all days, the unpleasantness of last night would be forgotten.
A little after two o’clock, after all their chores were done, Leni loaded her arms with containers of food and followed her parents out of the cabin. Blue sky stretched as far as the eye could see; the pebbled beach looked iridescent in the sunlight, with its broken clamshells scattered like pieces of wedding lace.
They loaded food and blankets and a bag full of rain gear and extra coats （the weather wasn’t reliable this time of year） into the back of the truck. Then they squished into the cab’s bench seat and Dad drove off.
In town, they parked by the bridge and walked toward the General Store.
“What in the world?” Mama said when they rounded the corner.
Main Street was crowded, but not in the way it should be. There should have been men gathered around barbecues, grilling moose burgers and reindeer sausage and fresh clams, swapping fish tales, drinking beers. The women should have been by the diner, fussing over long tables set up with food—halibut sandwiches, platters of Dungeness crab, buckets of steamed clams, vats of baked beans.
Instead, half the townspeople stood on the boardwalk on the water side of town and the other half stood in front of the saloon. It was like some weird O.K. Corral showdown.
Then Leni saw the saloon.
Every window was broken, the door had been hacked to bits, left as sharp shards of wood hanging from brass hinges, and white spray-painted graffiti covered the burnt walls. THIS IS A WARNING. STAY AWAY. ARROGANT PRICK. NO PROGRESS.
Tom Walker stood in front of the ruined saloon, with Large Marge and Natalie standing to his left and Ms. Rhodes and her husband on his right. Leni recognized the rest of the people standing with him: most of the town’s merchants and fishermen and outfitters. These were the people who’d come to Alaska for something.
Across the street, on the boardwalk, stood the off-the-gridders; the outcasts, the loners. Folks who lived in the bush, with no access to their property except by sea or air and who had come here to get away from something—creditors, the government, the law, child support, modern life. Like her dad, they wanted Alaska to remain wild to her fingertips forever. If they had their way, there would never be electricity or tourists or telephones or paved roads or flush toilets.
Dad walked confidently forward. Leni and Mama rushed to keep up with him.
Tom Walker strode out to meet Dad in the middle of the street. He threw a can of spray paint onto the ground at Dad’s feet. It clanged in the dirt, rolled sideways. “You think I don’t know it was you? You think everyone doesn’t know it was you, you crazy asshole?”
Dad smiled. “Something happen last night, Tom? Vandalism? What a shame.”
Leni noticed how powerful Mr. Walker looked beside her father, how steady. Leni couldn’t imagine Tom Walker ever stumbling around drunk or talking to himself or waking up screaming and crying. “You’re worse than a coward, Allbright. You’re stupid. Sneaking around in the dark to break windows and spray-paint words on wood I’m going to tear down anyway.”