My face was weathered, my skin tough as parchment cured in salt, and my hair was a solid, uncompromising silver. To this young man, I was just a confused old woman who had likely wandered away from a nursing home.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is it, son,\u201d I answered. My voice was raspy, like gravel grinding in a mixer, unused to casual conversation after days of silent travel. I handed him a fifty-dollar bill\u2014a tip that made his eyes widen comically\u2014and stepped onto the crunchy gravel drive.<\/p>\n
The air here was different. It didn\u2019t bite; it caressed. It smelled of damp, rotting leaves, woodsmoke, and the cloying sweetness of decaying magnolia blossoms. To lungs accustomed to the sterile, frigid oxygen of the North Slope oil camps, this air felt heavy, like breathing through wet wool.<\/p>\n
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