I’m wrapped in my sleeping bag wearing everything I own, plus Sumi’s jacket, and finally I’ve stopped shivering. Sumi hands me a mug of something hot, sweet and clearly alcoholic. I’m sure St. John’s First Aid would be thrilled to know she’s using alcohol to treat hypothermia. Still, the drink leaves vapor trails of heat all through my gut and I feel ridiculously happy. Sumi pours the booze from a silver flask, tipping it over my mug to get the last drops. I say, “So, no sign of my old man.” Sumi looks out the window at the sun, already low. “If he’s not here by now, we won’t see him today. He must be having a good time.” That should piss me off but I really don’t care. Sumi turns to the stove and starts a pan for the salmon. I say, “At school we do this thing with salmon. It’s like a crust of herbs. We wrap it in parchment and bake it over a pan of water.” Sumi digs out a blob of the ever-present Crisco. “Sounds like work.” She moves the pan to the back of the stove and lays in a fat fillet of coho, skin side down.
