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Once she went off on her own as the head of the science division of their partnership, Delphine got a staff position as a marine mammal biologist for Glacier Bay National Park. She worked almost every second of every day on various marine mammal issues: interaction with cruise ships, entanglements in commercial fishing gear, population dynamics. Over time, she had accumulated one of the largest databases of sightings on the West Coast. She was the lead investigator for dozens of peer-reviewed national and international publications. She spoke to audiences in Europe, Japan and Australia. She became pregnant in the late eighties and received a master's degree from the University of Alaska in Fairbanks. If anything, her pregnancy and subsequent son motivated her to better organize her time and focus her energy. She chose not to pursue a PhD because she wanted to continue going out on the water and actually working with the big animals directly rather than becoming mired in the swamp of academia. She mentored women in the fields of study that included the life of female animals: gestation, birth intervals, nutritional needs for birthing and feeding calves. It was true that John could be a fathead, but Delphine taught him as much as she could about gathering data and about the rigorous scientific method that loved particularity and deplored contradiction. They had spent hours discussing cases until the dark hole of John's death separated them. And now he was gone and their son was grown with children of his own. Now she had cancer and she was alone on the creased paper of a padded examining table.

When the young doctor didn't return, Delphine put her clothes on. She checked with the receptionist in the waiting room and asked about her next appointment. They kept her there for ten minutes because the doctor had not yet recorded his notes for the visit. Finally, they reached him on his mobile phone. He said he had been called on a "consult" for an emergency patient and that he would make his recommendation later in the day.

"We will call you as soon as we know," the nurse said. "You will be available, I assume?"

"Yes." Delphine packed her planner into the large leather bag she carried, which was full of her medication and a smaller computer she used for her emails and notes.

“Can you give me your number again? I don’t want to risk losing your info,” the nurse said without looking up into Delphine’s eyes.

Once done, she walked down the labyrinthine hallways to find the elevator that would take her to the south side, floor four. The hospital was built on a hillside and the numbering system of the floors had to be memorized. The fourth floor took her past surgery and out into the open air.

She liked the Baranof Hotel just because it reminded her of Alaska. Alexander Baranof had been the Russian manager of the early territory of Alaska. He had created wealth out of sea otter furs and started the first natural resource boom-bust economy in the territory: fur, gold, then oil. There was a time when salmon held the place of oil, gold and fur, but the Alaskan salmon industry was in decline. People weren’t buying salmon as much as they had, particularly as sea conditions and climate change drove the price up at the dock. No amount of protesting or awareness campaigning could shift the balance of power in a state virtually owned by big oil.

When Delphine crossed over to her hotel, she saw the couple with the blue- and pink-clad children. Once again, they were arguing.

“Shut the fuck up,” the man said as the woman jostled a little boy to try to get him to stop crying.

Delphine opened the old brass doors to the hotel. “He doesn’t understand when you talk to him that way,” the woman said. She looked exhausted. “And I don’t appreciate it either. Now let’s get him to the hospital.”

As the doors swung closed, and their voices faded into the hush of the Baranof, Delphine heard the man say, “This is bullshit... I can’t afford...”

Then Delphine was in the elevator.

The Baranof was a hot, musty time capsule. The staff worked hard, trying their best to keep it clean, but there was no way around the fact that its best days were far in the past. There were old wardrobes that were first banged together around the time of the Second World War, and hot water heat of the same period. Instead of investing in a makeover, the hospitality company simply embraced the style, which many of the older patients seemed to enjoy. The suite kitchenettes had three clean glasses each, mismatched dinnerware and toaster ovens filled with crumbs. It was like living in the annex of a thrift store.

Delphine opened the windows, letting the smells and sounds in. Her room was on the sixth floor. She spent most of her time working on her computers, reading reports and composing her transfer memos. She had set up a little command center in the bedroom of her suite and her phone and computers on an ironing board at the foot of the bed so they could be plugged into the snaky extension cord that was in turn plugged into her travel battery system to avoid the damage from the frequent power outages. She mostly kept the TV off unless the Dodgers or the Mariners were on, in which case she watched the games with the sound low. She wanted to hear the crack of the bat.