Thank god my LTE works in Canada. Last night I spent three hours I’ll never get back researching dumb phones, whether it’s possible to become unreachable, digitally speaking, without severing the place where Spotify tethers to my brain stem. I have that condition where I need to know it all: eldest daughter syndrome, etc. etc. What I’ve learned is no, I can’t—the role of Warden is the only one left to fill.

I booked this cabin for the quiet but can’t sleep without white noise turned all the way up. In the afternoons the Yukon sun stays high, and the neighbor’s husky paws at the door for pets. His fur pilots cottonwood seeds into the canopy. The woods here are full of pictures and birds; I make it ten whole seconds before I upload a sound byte to an app made by Cornell. The birdsong is Swainson’s Thrush—olive-backed—according to the algorithm. I hoped for sexier plumage. Nature is trying to teach me that the plain things make the pretty sounds.

Punchline: me, on a lawn chair, massaging my city tailbone. Judging by my snot on these rocks the spruce is not my friend. I promise I’ll take a walk, just as soon as Google tells me why the spider underfoot has such a fat ass. The husky hide-and-seeks the spider tenderly enough not to split her cesarean—how nice that we're all here together, harmonious, fidgeting in summer. Pop quiz: what’s worse, an ascetic or a Redditor? Pop quiz: is it nobler to hate man or yourself?

The husky has left now because I neglected his belly for this Notes app. Before he rounds the curved gravel drive he stops to mark a patch of pink flowers. I’d tell you their name but I’m trying hard to see the romance in mystery. I have that condition where everything reminds me of home, and also that condition where you think about the content of your AirBNB review several days before check out. I’m sure the porch is elevated for utility reasons, I’ll write, but it makes the view seem all the more lonely.