The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

I wait for him as he does two slow circles around the plane, his callused fingers smoothing over the metal body, his brow furrowed in intense scrutiny. Finally, he climbs in.

“Is there something wrong with the plane?”

“No cracks, no leaks. We’re good.”

“So . . . Where to next?” I ask, as he starts flicking switches again.

“You mean you’re not bailing on me yet?” He says it in a joking tone, but I sense a degree of doubt.

“Do you want me to bail?” Has he reached his limit of having me for a passenger?

There’s a long pause. “No. I don’t.”

“Well, good then. Just don’t go into the water, okay?”

He grins, sliding on his headset. “If you thought landing here was exciting, wait till we take off.”

Jonah cuts the engine. After a day of listening to its near-constant roar, the ensuing silence is all the more serene.

Pushing off my headset, I sink back into my seat and gaze over the Alaska Wild buildings. The sun is still high in the sky, even though it’s after eight at night. My head throbs from weariness and overstimulation, and lack of food. All I’ve had today is an apple, a banana, and a handful of crackers that Agnes offered me during one of our returns to base.

“So . . .” Jonah sighs. “Just making a buck, right?”

If he’s on a mission to make me eat my words today, he’s succeeding brilliantly. It was a long and tiring day of teeth-gritting landings on bumpy airstrips that are nothing more than short dirt roads, isolated by thousands of miles of mostly uninhabited land in every direction. Almost every trip today was to meet villagers to hand off essential supplies that had been ordered weeks before. Jonah knew all of them by name. He’d joke with them and apologize for the wait. They’d thank him for coming, even though most of them had been waiting by those airstrips for hours. One of them on and off for days, thanks to a heavy fog that kept pilots from being able to land there.

And all I kept thinking about as I smiled at that guy was how many times I’ve ordered makeup or clothes online, only to feel utterly disappointed when I arrive home from work and find it not delivered. And my mother, who dropped her phone in the sink that one time and ordered a new one for next-day delivery. She lingered at home, anxiously waiting. Her package finally arrived just as I was coming home from work, and so I had the pleasure of witnessing her dress-down of the deliveryman firsthand—how she’s lost an entire day of her life, how a phone carrier should understand how vital a phone is to society, how the mail carrier company needs to upgrade their system to give smaller, more accurate delivery windows, how they don’t value their customers’ time and she deserves compensation for her hours of work lost—all while the man in uniform waited with forced patience and a glazed look for her to sign for it. As if he was so used to people yelling at him over seemingly important packages that it all just slid off his back. And I’ll bet it happens all the time.

My mother, who would never be described as patient, berated a complete stranger about a cell phone—that arrived the day it was supposed to; meanwhile, this villager was cheerily catching up with Jonah, showing him pictures of the huskies he was training for some big dogsled race, the penicillin that he’d waited days in this field for, that the village clinic had waited weeks for, sitting by his feet.

I’m not surprised my mother didn’t adapt well here.

And I’m beginning to see how Jonah would take one look at me—the twenty-six-year-old girl who showed up in wedge heels and a Brixton hat, her two giant suitcases in tow—and want to set me straight.

“Just making a buck and delivering pizza,” I correct, jokingly.

“Right.” He chuckles. “But did you see how that kid’s face lit up?”

“The happiest little birthday boy I’ve ever seen.”

He shakes his head. “And you almost ruined it.”

I let out a groan. “That would have been your fault.”

He shoots me a look of bewilderment and I can’t help but start to laugh. “Why would I believe you?” When a cab pulled up and handed Jonah two pizza boxes from Gigi’s earlier today, I assumed that lunch was being delivered. And then, when Jonah said we were taking it to a village for a little boy’s sixth birthday along with some other cargo, I assumed he was messing with me.

I was reaching for the crust to rip off a piece and peel off the cheese—starved—when he hollered and snatched the box away.

Thank God, because the mother and the little boy were waiting for us by the airstrip when we arrived at the village of three hundred, the boy’s eyes wide with glee and anticipation. His mom explained how, ever since the village teacher—a woman from Chicago—told the class about the popular food staple last year, all he’s wanted for his birthday was a pizza party.

Speaking of pizza . . . “I’m hungry.” And exhausted.

“Yeah, me, too. Good thing we’re calling it a day.” Jonah sighs and unbuckles his seat belt. But doesn’t make to get out just yet. His mouth opens, and I sense him wanting to say something, and then changing his mind. We’re left in awkward silence.

“Hey, thanks for taking me out. And not crashing,” I offer, hoping to break up the sudden, odd tension. “I had fun.” And, even more important, I’m starting to get a sense about how integral Alaska Wild is to so many people; how many villages rely on my dad and Jonah, and the other pilots, to bring them what they need to survive.

And to think my dad’s had the weight of that on his shoulders since he was in his early twenties.

Meanwhile, I’m twenty-six and I don’t even want the responsibility of keeping a pet alive.