Page 7 of Seale the Deal

Look, there’s a reason modern technology invented parkas, Remi says, finally grabbing my suitcase. We need to get you one before winter arrives. She slams the tailgate shut.

I think when you see my wool coat plan in action, you’ll feel different, I say smugly.

I think when you experience negative twenty-two blowing off the water, you’ll feel differently.

My eyes widen. In Fahrenheit or Celsius?

Fahrenheit.

I pull out my phone to convert it.

That’s negative thirty Celsius, I whisper.

Remi shrugs. Yeah, but it usually doesn’t get that bad until January.

I stare at her. But the internet said you average minus five to fifteen.

Averages don’t account for cold snaps.

Then maybe that’s what happened when I visited, I say quickly, suddenly desperate to believe I can survive this place. I distinctly remember exposed skin feeling both frozen and on fire.

Remi scrunches her face while thinking. I think the coldest it got during your trip was maybe fourteen degrees?

I type that number in my phone.

That’s only negative ten Celsius!

She shrugs. At the time, I thought I was being kind bringing you up when things started to warm up.

I stare at her in horror. What have I done?

Remi smiles. Oh, come on. It’ll be fine. Now, get in the truck.

I head toward the passenger door, dragging my feet a little. I know this is temporary, but now I’m feeling a little worried about how I’m going to get through a full Alaskan winter. And there’s no way around it.

As I put my seat belt across my chest, my stomach growls.

Remi chuckles. Hungry?

My cheeks flush. Nervous flyer, I remind her. I didn’t eat before leaving for fear of using the barf bag.

We’ll stop somewhere along the way, she says. I could go for an iced chai latte.

Sounds good to me.

Thirty minutes later, we’ve loaded up with coffee, and we’ve acquired the only vaguely edible food items I trust from Starbucks before finally hitting the road.

I take a sip of the iced coffee I got and immediately shiver. Oof. Bad choice. I set it in the cup holder. Knowing that cold coffee is almost unbearable makes me sad.

She shrugs. I drink it year-round.

I look at my friend with a brow raised. You are a fascinating creature, I say as I turn on my seat heater.

At first, the drive is quiet as I watch the highway carve through endless forest and towering mountains. It’s not that British Columbia lacks beauty. I grew up surrounded by ocean and mountains and enough towering evergreens to make most people feel outdoorsy by association alone. Alaska feels less curated, though. The mountains don’t look scenic so much as imposing. Entire stretches of land pass without a single sign of life beyond trees, flowers, and water. It’s beautiful in a way that almost feels intimidating.

After about an hour, Remi asks if I’ve listened to the latest episodes of our favourite true crime podcast. I haven’t. And as the two chaotic hosts come through Remi’s speakers, I feel back in touch with our friendship. We debate over the suspect list, laugh at the incompetent police investigation, and make deductions like we’re somehow qualified to solve the case.

Another hour later, and the episode is over.