Dear Harry,

Tomorrow I'm fourteen years old. I've decided Alaska is no place to spend a birthday. There's nothing but beans and coffee and salt pork, and everybody's sick. Dad's been coughing again. He says he's fine but I don't believe him.

. . .

Dear Harry,

Well today was my birthday and I was right. We ate beans for dinner and Dad is sick. Oh Harry, I hate Alaska!

A particularly loud and rattling cough from the other room made Natty look up from the page crammed with writing. Her letters to Harry had taken on the form of a diary more than anything; a long time could pass before a someone made the long drive out to one of the towns for supplies, and so Natty wrote multiple short letters on one or two pieces of paper when time allowed, then folded it up and sent it and a handful of pennies off with the appointed driver. She had, by this time, written countless little letters in this format, but had not yet been rewarded with a response. And it had been months.

Another cough, and Natty pushed her chair back from the little table and stood. Her head spun a bit with the sudden movement and she rubbed her eyes. It was getting too dark for writing anyway. So she carefully folded the paper and slipped it inside one of her school books, then made her way quietly to the other room, where her father lay, still coughing.

Sol Gann was a strong man tired out by hard work and the strain of raising a daughter on next to nothing. So although his arms, lying limply over the blankets tucked up to his chest, were ropey with veins and muscles, he face was drawn, pale, and twisted with the pain of a constant cough. It had only started today, so Natty wasn't worried about pneumonia quite yet, but it hovered in the back of her mind just as she hovered in the doorway, watching her father struggle to breathe evenly, to soothe the cough through sheer willpower.

"You okay, Dad?" she asked softly, and he opened his eyes and smiled at her.

"'Course I am, Natty."

He said it as cheerfully as possible, but the effort cost him his hard-won peace, and he began to cough again. There was cup of water on his bedside table, and Natty hurried to pick it up. The glass was still cold—hardly surprising in this climate—and she held it to her father's lips as she sat down gently on the edge of the bed. He drank slowly, savoring the way it slipped down his throat, and they sat like that for a long time, Natty with one hand on his back and the other beginning to tremble as it held that glass up. Finally Sol's hand slipped over her own, warm and rough and gentle, relieving her of her burden, and setting it back down on the table.

"Natty, you worry too much for a girl your age," he sighed, lifting his hand to stroke her cheek.

She wrinkled her nose but leaned into his touch. "I'm fourteen!"

"That's right!" His eyes shone suddenly, and Natty was afraid he'd start coughing again from excitement. "I almost forgot to give you your present!"

She tried her best to look nonchalant as he reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and string. Suddenly she remembered this package; it had come back in the last supply run almost two months ago.

"Dad!" she scolded, even as she began to work at the knot in the string. "You told me this was new suspenders—oh, Dad!"

She stopped with a small gasp when she saw what the package contained. Sol was looking at her with a twinkle in his eye, and she threw her arms around him as gently as she could.

"Thank you, Daddy," she whispered in his ear. "Thank you."

. . .

Dear Harry,

Notice something different about this letter? You better, 'cause I'm writing on real proper letter paper now! Dad bought me a whole box for my birthday, and a fancy pen he called a fountain pen. I've got no idea how he found them, but I don't have to write on blank pages from text books no more—here the last two words were scratched out—anymore, and I'm so pleased. I hope your pl—another scratch mark—you're pleased too. Haven't heard from you in a while, but I suppose it takes a long time for mail to get here. I hope you're doing all right in California. Don't forget about me.

Natty

. . .

Dear Harry,

I finally got a letter from you today, and a whole bunch should be on their way to you now. George drove to town and took all my letters to the post office, and came back with one from you! I was sorry to hear about your job though. If money's tight, don't you go wasting it on letters to me, you hear? Listen to me, sounding like a regular mama hen. I suppose it comes from being the woman of the house. Ain't—pen scratches—Isn't that a funny thought? Still it's all right, I guess. I can cook so many things now, when I have the stuff for it. And I'm good at making it last. Maybe it'll last until the next time someone drives to town this time. Dad's finally better, and back at work, and I'm glad but it's frightful lonely around the house. Days are getting long now and Dad's gone for ages so I sit at home and mend things to pass the time when I'm not cooking. I'm not great at it but Dad don't—even more pen scratches and a frustrated blot—ugh, doesn't. Doesn't doesn't doesn't. I hate knowing grammar because now I know how bad I am at it. Now stop laughing at me, and don't say you're not because I know you are. Anyway. Dad doesn't mind, and it's something to do besides cook and read and write. Not that I mind those things, it's just I get bored. Well. I better get started on dinner, it's finally getting dark. I hope you find more work soon, if you haven't by the time you get this. I'm sure you will though. Don't forget about me.

Natty

After a moment's thought, she scratched at the last sentence until it was nothing but an enormous blot. Harry would see it and know what it was, she supposed, but it seemed such a childish thing to write, now that she was fourteen and Harry still remembered to write. Maybe he would see how grown up she was, for scratching out those words. Or maybe he wouldn't care. She had always assumed that the closing sentence was nothing but a little joke between them, but the more she wrote it (and the more Harry never used it in reply), the more petulant it sounded, and she decided it was time for it to go. So she waited for the blot to dry, then tucked the letter away in its box, which she placed in the bottom of her dresser drawer before heading to the kitchen to start dinner.

Just as she was laying the table, her dad came home. He stamped his feet in the doorway, ridding his boots of dirt and tree bark, then sat down heavily at the table.

"Dad, wash your hands," Natty reprimanded lightheartedly as Sol reached for a biscuit, but it was as if he didn't hear her. He only broke off a piece and put it in his mouth, ignoring the steam that still flowed copiously from the fresh-baked morsel.

"Dad? Dad, what's wrong?"

He finally shook himself from his reverie, only just seeming to realize exactly how hot the biscuit in his hand was, and he dropped it back on the plate.

"Dad?" Natty prompted once more.

His thin face seemed even more sunken and worn as he looked at her, and he took her hand in his own, whether for her comfort or his, Natty wasn't sure. Probably both.

"Patrick took a fall today," he said heavily, his grip on her hand tightening.

Natty gasped softly, and her eyes began to sting with tears. Patrick was a topper, and even though everybody knew it was a dangerous job, everybody was still shocked every time there was an accident. Sol wasn't finished yet, though.

"By some miracle," he continued, "He wasn't hurt too badly. Couple fractures and a lot of bruises, but he'll be back at work in a few weeks."

"Well that's good news at least," Natty began, daring to pull her hand away and stir the soup so it stayed evenly heated. "And nobody else was hurt?"

The only reply she received was a long silence, and the dread began to tighten around her stomach like an iron fist. She looked up and her father's head was bowed over his folded hands, which shook violently.

"No," she whispered, the tears returning with a vengeance. "Who?"

Sol rubbed his hands over his face as though trying to clean away the memory.

"Neil was too close," he said in a ghastly murmur. "He was dead before he hit the ground."

Natty's legs couldn't hold her up anymore. She sunk down at her father's feet, her eyes suddenly dry, her stomach suddenly an empty pit that seemed to be dragging her in on herself. Images of Marta, thin and dirty, but aglow with the light of pregnancy, flashed through her mind, and she could've sworn she heard a baby crying. Neil would never go home to his family. His child—God! Natty didn't even if it was a boy or a girl—would never have a father. And Natty wrapped her arms around her father's knees as she finally began to sob. His coarse, heavy work pants prickled with pine needles and smelled like smoke, but she clung to them as though for dear life. Then his hands were on her shoulders and he pulled her up to sit in his lap like she hadn't done in years, and she cried into his shoulder until she fell asleep.

. . .

Dear Harry,

I think I've told you this before, but I hate Alaska. I don't think I'd mind it so much if Dad weren't a logger, it's actually quite beautiful up here. But there are so many accidents. Dad is topping right now because one of the toppers had a fall the other day and Dad's done it before so they asked him. It's only for a few weeks until Patrick is well again but I still hate it. I wish we were somewhere with safer work. Maybe Dad could work in an office, or at a mechanic's shop or a gas station. Anything but this damn logging. Even if you're not a topper, things can still go wrong. Trees fall differently than you expect and people are sometimes in the wrong place at the wrong time and oh Harry, how I wish we were in California. Besides, then maybe I could see you again. I miss you.

Natty

She wasn't sure what prompted her to add those final words. It had been an impulse; she'd written them almost without thinking. She deliberated over them a while, but decided to keep them. After all, they were true.

. . .

A few weeks later, after the next supply run into town, Natty stood in the kitchen, hands shaking, as she perused the letter that had come along with the sack of flour, cans of beans and tub of lard.

Dear Natty,

I know I haven't heard back from you yet, but I figured you'd want to know that I'm leaving California. I still haven't found work, but there's rumors of some up further North. So I'm gonna ride the rails to Portland and try my luck. My landlady's a nice enough gal and she said she'd forward anything from Alaska to an uncle she has up there. So I'll stop by when I get there. I wouldn't want to miss any of your letters.

Anyway, I'm headed north tonight. Almost like I'm headed to Alaska the long way round. They say Canada's lovely this time of year, so if I ever fancy a holiday trip, I'll let you know. Stay safe up there, kid. I'll see you.

Harry