ALASKA, some time in the fall. – Even with a full tank, there was barely enough to drive the truck there and back. One shot, no messing around. That’s what he said when I asked about exploring the villages. Next time, maybe, he said. If we think of packing an extra can of gas. We both knew that was polite form for “never.” I was very careful not to pout. Nothing worse than a pouty girl on the first day of a roadtrip.

On both sides of the road, glaciers stood tall, snowy chins up. It wasn’t the super-heavy kind, but we drove in silence, pulling over every once in a while to pick up a frozen, heavy rock he thought would look good around the house he’d be building, come spring. His house.

At dusk, in the concrete pools fed by hot springs, we soaked our souls and bones in silence. Eyes closed, worlds apart, lost strands of hair framing his face like a floating halo of snakes. The ripe grapes he said would be there, begging to be picked, weren’t. The vines, shriveled and black, cast gnarly shadows on the greenhouse ceiling and walls. The only sound was the sound of water.

Traveling alone from the hot-hot pool, the slightly-less-hot pool, and the pool that was just-right, I hummed to myself and wondered why I’d come so far. Wrapping my hair, I stepped out of the water and walked to bed alone, the stinging night air tingling on my skin, almost as sweet as kisses.

In the passenger’s seat, after morning waffles and cigarettes, I smiled at the frost clinging to the dead fireweed. Somewhere along the way, as we drove past raging rivers we couldn’t hear, I started to sing. Softly, anything and everything, what else was there to do. On the back seat, the dog sat up, puzzled or amazed.

Unloading the rocks, back at the cabin, he said whatever happened to you. I never heard you sing before.