Levi woke up to the insistent sound of his alarm. It had the same rhyming beat as always, but for some reason, it sounded louder this morning, as though he had woken up for the first time in his life.

He sat up, stretching his back until he felt a satisfying pull in his shoulders. At thirty-five years old, his body ached in places that were vaguely familiar. By the time he’d made coffee, his thoughts drifted to his day ahead.

I divide my life into two parts: before Hiland Mountain and after. The time between I don’t dwell on much. Why should I? It was as bleak as Eagle River’s sky in November, a granite dome strung with nimbus clouds that blocked all light and yielded only biting rain and hail. Through the steel bars, the land around the facility was covered with a thin layer of frost and ice, where off in a distant and unattainable horizon a few dots hinted at Anchorage city life.

It was a bright afternoon. Sunlight fell across the benches and paths, making the leaves glow in green and gold. Angelique sat on a bench near the lake, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded on her lap. An older man was beside her, gray-haired and stooped, speaking slowly about hatred. He spoke as though he had carried it all his life and expected to carry it always.

My siblings and I all committed to a biking tour together in Puglia, Italy, almost a year before its mid-May start date. The main reason was a joint celebration of significant milestones for each of us at the time. I was the oldest brother and was turning seventy, and our lone sister, Alice, sixty-five. Pete, two years my junior, had just successfully survived head/neck cancer plus a rash of aftermath complications. And Tom, the youngest, had formalized his upcoming early retirement at age sixty-one.

A flickering neon sign reading “A-R-T” on a dark Culver City street was the only indication that Arcturus Gallery was open. Steep concrete steps led to a basement-level space. He nearly slipped on a rain-slicked slab—it never rains in LA—before landing in a small puddle in front of a smudged glass door.

Cursing as damp seeped through thin socks, he pushed through the portal. Bells jangled announcing his entry into the art gallery, as though it was a convenience store.

The cell phone’s ring pierced through the Christmas music like a needle into a vein. I sputtered from my baking nirvana and glanced at the screen, already aware by the ringtone that the caller wasn’t my husband or our daughters’ school but still a number I’d stored. When I saw that it was the oldest granddaughter of Helen, my sweet neighbor, I set my frosting bag down and tapped a pinky fingertip to the green button.

“Nikki, thank God you’re home. It’s Rachel. We need your help.”

It was my third cruise in three summers, and I still could not get used to the cramped, windowless living situation that followed me onto every boat. I guess if I wanted to, I could have always splurged on a better room, but that always made things more than twice the price, and without the shitty room, it hardly even felt like a cruise.

I borrowed this attitude mostly from my wife, who did not enjoy cruises very much at all, and only came when I insisted.