"This is Cara. She's researching an article about supply logistics in remote Alaska." I introduce her smoothly, keeping the cover story intact. "Wanted to see what these runs actually involve."
"Well, you picked a good one." Raymond extends his hand, and Cara shakes it with exactly the right amount of pressure. Firm but not aggressive. Respectful. "Come on inside. Judith's got coffee going."
I pull out my phone and send Sadie a quick text: Made it to the Kowalskis. All good. Then I pocket the phone and help Raymond start unloading supplies onto the porch before we follow him into the warmth that smells like baking bread and home cooking. Judith stands at the stove, smaller than her husband, white hair pulled back in a neat bun. She turns when we enter, and confusion flickers across her face before clearing.
"Raymond, we have guests." Her words carry slight uncertainty, like she's not quite sure who we are but knows she should be welcoming.
"It's Finn, dear," Raymond says gently. "Making his delivery. And he brought a new friend."
Recognition lights in Judith's eyes. "Finn! Of course. Did you bring my medicine?"
"Right here." I set the pharmacy bag on the counter. "Everything Doc Sage prescribed, plus refills for next month."
"You're such a good boy." Judith pats my arm with genuine affection. "Always taking care of us old folks."
Raymond catches my eye with thanks he doesn't voice. The dementia has gotten worse since my last visit. Little moments ofconfusion that probably terrify both of them even as they try to manage it with grace.
Cara steps forward naturally, no awkwardness or pity in her expression. "Mrs. Kowalski, I’m Cara. That coffee smells wonderful. Could I help you pour some for everyone?"
"Oh, that would be lovely." Judith beams at her. "Cups are in that cabinet. Cream and sugar on the table."
I watch Cara move into the kitchen space like she belongs there. She pours coffee with steady hands, asks Judith about her recipe for the bread cooling on the counter, listens to the answer with genuine interest even though Judith loses the thread twice and has to start over. There's no impatience in Cara's manner, no forced tolerance. Just authentic kindness toward an elderly woman who's losing herself in increments.
Raymond and I carry the rest of the supplies inside, organizing them the way Judith prefers even though she might not remember where we put things an hour from now. He tells me about problems with the generator, lists the parts he'll need, and I make a note to bring them next trip. We talk about weather predictions, community news, nothing important but everything essential to maintaining human connection in a place where isolation could kill you.
An hour passes before we load back into the truck. Judith hugs us both goodbye, calls me "such a good boy" again. Raymond walks us to the vehicle, and his expression turns serious once Judith's inside.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For bringing Cara. Judith does better when there are other women around. Helps her remember who she is."
I nod, throat tight in a way I wasn't expecting. "Cara's good with people."
"You're good with people too, Finn." Raymond grips my shoulder briefly. "Even if you pretend you're not."
Cara and I settle back into the truck cab, and she stares out the window at the landscape that's probably overwhelming in its vastness if you're not used to it. Mountains stretch endlessly, the forest covers everything between the peaks, and the sky feels close enough to touch.
"They're lovely people," she says eventually.
"They are."
"How long do you think they can stay out here?"
"As long as Raymond can manage the homestead and Judith's dementia doesn't progress too far." I navigate around a pothole that's been there for years. "Eventually they'll need more help than monthly deliveries can provide."
"What happens then?"
"Their daughter will have to make some hard choices." The reality isn't kind. "Moving them to Anchorage means taking them from the life they built. Keeping them here means watching Judith fade faster in isolation."
"There's no good answer."
"No," I agree. "Just different kinds of loss."
Cara processes that, maybe thinking about losses of her own. Three years on the run means three years of giving up everything familiar. Career, friends, any sense of stability or safety. She's chosen a kind of isolation that rivals what Raymond and Judith face, except hers is self-imposed and tactical rather than geographic and inevitable.
I'm watching the road ahead when I spot them: fresh tire tracks cutting across an old logging road that branches off the main route. The road's been abandoned for at least five years, closed when the lumber company pulled out. Nothing up there except deteriorating equipment and forest reclaiming cleared land.
Nothing that should generate traffic, especially not recently.
I file the observation away with all the others I've been collecting for months now. Patterns building in the back of my mind, connections forming between seemingly unrelated details.
