I could use some floss. But then, we’re camping. No floss, no hairspray, no condoms. Well, we won’t need condoms, really, we’re both women. But there is the remote possibility of meeting some lumberjack at Casey’s in Juneau. And, god knows, he won’t have a condom.
I park our Fiesta and we crunch across the nearly frozen parking lot. The flourescent light of Casey’s blinks on and off in the dark.
“Do you think we’ll be warm enough?” Sandy asks. Her breath comes out like a white bubble, like a cartoon. “I mean, later. In the tent.”
“Probably not,” I said. “Let’s just have a few Coors and see where we end up.”


Later that night, getting close to closing, I’d been chatting with a group of university guys, playing darts. They couldn’t believe a girl could beat them. Round after round, that a girl could win. They had no clue how often Sandy and I had played darts in my basement when we were kids. I smelled my fishy hands, reminding me of work. No matter how much bleach I used to scrub that smell away, it lingered. I figured we’d better call it a night. But where was Sandy?


They say it’s impossible for someone to disappear. But she did. It’s been more than twenty years now, and not a word from Sandy since that night. Police searched, her family hired a private investigator for a year. She left no trace. Sometimes I wonder, did she ever exist? Was that our dream? Move to Alaska, make a mint off those fishing vessels, find a husband. It all seems so unreal now. And yet, still, I wait for her call.