The next morning the green vinyl tent on the narrow pebble beach in front of the village fluttered occasionally as if even it was shivering in the cold.  Through his glasses Saul Leary saw the tent’s occupant had wrapped a yellow plastic garbage bag around his sleeping bag in what must have been a futile effort to keep it dry.  The man’s jeans and blue nylon jacket were stained black by rain and his breath formed a mist which floated a long way before it disappeared. 

     Leary was high on the ridge in the trees above the beach.  Cold rain greased his face and dripped off his long black hair.  He hadn’t worn his contact lenses, and his round steel-rimmed ‘glasses had misted and slipped to the end of his nose. He gained some consolation from knowing the man in front of the tent had to be feeling even more miserable than he was.  

     He punched numbers into his cell phone and then pressed it close to his ear.  He bent his back slightly, hiding behind the ferns.  

     He’d come up to southern Alaska only because the people here were the nearest thing he had to family and they wanted rid of this unwelcome visitor on their beach.  But it was costing him money he really didn’t have.  His eyes flicked repeatedly from the man in front of the tent to the waters of the inlet and the surrounding forests.   There was no guarantee the man was only a reporter or really on his own.

     “Who are you?” he demanded.

     “Robert Bridges.  New York Times.  You can check me out.  But I guess you already have.”

     “Enjoying your visit there?” Leary asked, careful to give the impression he was far away.  He wished to god the people had just thrown the guy right back in his boat and shoved it back out to sea.  He pushed his glasses higher on his nose, sliding them over his wet skin, regretting not wearing his contacts. 

     The reporter laughed.  “Doubt I’ll ever be warm again,” he said.  “So much for spring.  For a drought it sure rains a lot up here.”