“Next time! I don’t want there to be a next time! And where the hell am I supposed to hire a security guard in Newenham?”

“Job Service in Anchorage always has clients looking for employment,” Liam said, and tipped his flat-brimmed Mountie hat in grave salute on his way back to the Blazer.

“Job Service! Sure, if I wanted hire a moron who-” The rest of Brewster Gibbons’ words were cut off when Liam’s door closed.

“All the same,” Prince said when he put it in gear, “it probably was Teddy or John or Paul. Or Art Inga and Dave Iverson. Or-”

“Probably,” Liam agreed. “Which is why we’re going over to John’s to say hi.”

“Did I mention that I have a hot date tonight?” Prince wondered out loud. “And that I’m already late?”

“Did I mention that so do I, and so am I, and that I’ve got a better chance of getting laid at the end of it than you do?” Liam said, wondering if it was true.

“Just a passing comment,” Prince said, and slumped in her seat with a sigh.

Liam pulled out onto the road and put the Blazer into a skid over the icy ruts. The road looked like his life. He hit the gas and powered out of the skid, the rear wheels missing the ditch by a hair. Next to him Prince let out a pent-up breath.

Things had cooled off considerably between Liam and Wy since John Barton’s offer to bring Liam back to Anchorage. It was the difference between fire and ice, and ice, as the poet foretold, for destruction was also great and would suffice. He knew it was partly his fault; he was holding both Wy and Tim in limbo, which made him feel guilty. He was pissing off John Barton, too, who was calling on average once a day before breakfast to bellow down the line for Liam to shit or get off the pot in tones clearly audible all over Wy’s house.