Russell “Russ” Tadzea stood on the tiny, makeshift runway beside his two-seater airplane and stared in disbelief at the woman before him. Woman is the wrong word. She"s a girl. A young girl. She can"t be the teacher. In his mind, Russ recalled the kindergarten teachers he"d seen on television. She"d be middle aged and plump, on the line between favorite aunt and kind, story-reading grandmother. She"d smell of cinnamon and peppermint paste. This… creature looked like a stiff breeze would blow her away. Hair the color of brown sugar swirled around her shoulders, tangling in the white faux fur lining the hood of her coat. Thin black gloves protected her fingers from the September cold. To Russ, it felt quite pleasant, with temperatures in the low 50s, so he knew she was not Alaskan. The girl
