Thirty
Lucky for Alastair, Buck Walsh the retired mechanic hadn’t yet achieved his dream of retrofitting an old school bus in which to drive to the Lower Forty-eight.
In fact, he was gluing strips of foam to the ceiling to serve as insulation when Alastair tapped on the door.
A wiry, energetic man in greasy coveralls, he looked happy enough to take a break and plopped into a camp chair set up outside the bus.
“We got about a half hour before the rain starts up,” he told Alastair. “They’re calling for flash flooding down the peninsula. All I do is track the weather since I retired.”
Opening a Yeti cooler, he offered Alastair a beer. They chatted for a moment about the school bus, how the salmon had been running, and when the first frost might hit. Alastair could talk confidently about
