Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Search
A year and a half after I vanished, Mark was sitting in a tavern across from an old colleague of mine from St. Jude’s Hospital. Mark had lost fifteen pounds. His hair was untamed, dark circles were permanently etched under his sunken eyes, and his law practice was suffering because he spent half his working hours hunting online medical boards.
""Look, Mark, I shouldn't be telling you this,"" the junior resident muttered after his third bourbon, looking around nervously. ""Dr. Hendricks swore everyone to secrecy. But I feel sorry for you, man. You look like you're one step away from a bridge.""
Mark leaned across the sticky table, his fingernails digging into the wood. ""Where is she, Tyler? Just give me a state. Please.""
""She’s in Point Hope, Alaska. Running a joint federal clinic with some ex-military surgeon. The regional medical association just published a paper she co-authored on deep-tissue frostbite protocols. Her contract is up for renewal in two months.""
Mark didn't wait to hear another word. He threw a fifty-dollar bill onto the table, ran to his car, and bought a ticket to Fairbanks before he even reached his apartment.
In his warped, desperate imagination, Anna was suffering in exile. He imagined her shivering in some desolate wooden shack, crying herself to sleep while regretting her stubbornness. He convinced himself that she was simply waiting for him to prove his love—that this whole Arctic stunt was an elaborate test to see if he would cross oceans and continents to win her back.
He landed in Fairbanks, caught a puddle-jumper to Kotzebue, and finally chartered an exorbitant four-seat bush plane that landed him on the gravel runway of Point Hope during a bitter autumn drizzle.
He stepped out onto the runway clutching a leather weekend bag and a jewel box containing a three-carat platinum diamond ring he had spent his life savings on. He didn't have heavy winter boots; his designer Italian overcoat was soaked through within five minutes, and the frigid coastal wind cut through his dress slacks like razors.
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""Where is the medical clinic?"" he demanded of an Inuit airport mechanic working on an engine cowling.
The man pointed a grease-stained wrench down the muddy road toward the only cluster of illuminated buildings. ""Half a mile. Walk fast, tourist. Sleet is coming.""
