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PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Birdie knew her mistake as soon as she cracked open her eyes. She was wholly sick, like she had the flu or been clubbed all around her head and body and, in the confines of the one-room cabin, she was increasingly aware of her own stink, how her skin was emanating the odor of cigarette smoke, digested alcohol, and vomit. She slid her arm out from under her daughter's head, and Emaleen rolled onto her other side but didn't wake. Little Emaleen, with her messy blond hair and her warm, pink cheeks—Birdie wanted to cuddle with her and go back to sleep. But the pounding in her head was only getting worse. She eased into a sitting position on the side of the bed and slowly stood up. A cold sweat trickled down the small of her back and from her armpits. She put a hand on the wall when it felt like her knees might go out from under her. When she looked down, she saw she was still wearing her same blue jeans and T-shirt.

The Wolverine Lodge had been packed last night. A dozen or so of the regulars had driven from Alpine and Stone Creek, a couple of long-haul truckers had stopped for the night, and Charlie Coldfoot and his buddies had come out from Anchorage on their Harleys for the first ride of the season. Nearly twenty people crowded into the small roadside bar for no other reason than to chase away the darkness. The jukebox played Billy Idol and Emmylou Harris. Outside, the spring puddles had iced up and a light snow had fallen across the mountains, but Birdie remembered feeling on fire. Her hips brushed against the men's legs as she handed out shots of hard liquor and cold bottles of beer. Everything she'd said, everything she'd done, had been effortless and flawless, like she was a perfect flame dancing across the wooden tables, a touch of heat reflected in the men's faces. The music rose up into her feet through the plank floor. She'd let Roy twirl her like a ballerina. Even Della had laughed. Every single one of them—the entire goddamned world—golden and beautiful.

It was tempting to blame it on Roy, but it wasn't a big deal, the cocaine. In fact, she'd hardly gotten a rush from it, so she and Roy had gone back a few more times. Each time they tumbled with laughter out of the bathroom, Della was watching them, unsmiling from behind the bar. Birdie remembered her tongue and nose going numb. Then even her teeth, so that her face felt like it belonged to someone else. It wasn't the coke that tripped her up, though, as much as the drinking. It was as if she had been granted a superpower—the ability to down tequila like it was water.

And that's when she'd made her mistake. She hadn't stopped. When she should have called it a night, counted her tips, and helped Della hustle everyone out of the bar, instead she had doubled down. True, she'd been goaded by Coldfoot or somebody calling her a lightweight, and the coke made it tricky to judge just how drunk she was getting. But the real problem was her bizarre sense of hope. Maybe, somehow, this time, she would be able to suspend herself in that perfect moment when you've had enough to fly, but not so much as to be sick with yourself.

In the cabin bathroom, Birdie put her lips to the faucet and drank several gulps of water and splashed some on her face. She needed a shower and a cup of hot coffee. First, she picked up her lighter and pack of cigarettes from the dresser and stepped outside in her bare feet. The single wooden step was cold and damp with dew. She folded her arms tightly against the chill as she smoked. After months of winter with no direct sunlight, the sun had finally risen high enough in the sky to shine down on the lodge. In all directions, the mountain peaks were sharp white with snow against the blue sky, but the air smelled green, like cottonwood buds and blades of grass and creek water.

Birdie put out the cigarette, went back inside, shoved her feet into her sneakers, and pulled on a sweatshirt. Emaleen was a heavy sleeper. She'd be out for another hour or two. Birdie closed the door quietly as she left.

The small guest cabins didn't have any storage space, so she kept some of their belongings in a back shed. Crammed in a corner, beside Emaleen's bicycle and sled, was the spinning rod that Grandpa Hank had given Birdie years ago. One eye had been duct-taped back onto the rod, the line was brittle with age, and the reel had a hitch in the mechanism. But in the beat-up tackle box, she found a few Mepps spinning lures still in their packages and a tangle of snap swivels. No matter how much her head hurt, Birdie always remembered how to tie a fisherman's knot. 'Best cure for a hangover.' That's what Grandpa Hank had always said. Carrying the rod and tackle box, Birdie walked around the back of the other cabins and the lodge, past the picnic table and firepit. Della would still be in bed. Clancy was probably just now brewing coffee and heating up the grill for breakfast in the cafe.