Page 62 of One Last Shot
“I can’t believe you’ve never been here before.” He closed his door, locked it.
Vehicles packed the parking lot, tall lights casting down over more pickup trucks than all of South Dakota, and that was saying something. A long front porch flanked the front of the building, where a couple Alaskan cowboys lounged, the red eyes of their cigarettes glowing against the twilight.
As he approached the long log building, he recognized the song as one by Chris Stapleton, “Fire Away,” and something just sort of tugged at his soul.
He held the door open, and Boo walked inside ahead of him.
Bigger on the inside, the place hosted a stage at one end of the building, with a man at the mic crooning out Stapleton’s cover. Men and women in flannel and jeans crowded the long bar, every round high-top chair occupied. A few more high-top tables crowded the center, with booths affixed around the room. At the other end, more patrons crowded the two pool tables, some of them laughing at the apparent smack talk.
The smell of fries and cheese curds and everything deep fried hung in the air. And above the bar, a row of flatscreens played all manner of sports—hockey, baseball, soccer, and even a fishing show from the lower forty-eight. Made his mind go to his father and his annual fishing trip to northern Minnesota.
Maybe he could consider . . .
He shook the thought away and followed Boo. A couple slid out of their booth and Boo claimed it. He slid in opposite her. “Good nab.”
A female server walked up, cleared the glasses, and wiped the table. Threw down a couple coasters. “What do you want to drink?”
“Do you have chocolate milk?” Oaken said.
The woman considered him. “I’ll check.”
“I’ll take a Coke,” said Boo. “And maybe somethingreally fattening, like a pile of those fries.” She pointed to another server walking with glistening fries and O-rings.
“And the rings,” Oaken said. He leaned in when the waitress left. “I like how you order.”
She laughed. “Moose says I eat like a two-year-old. But I like junk food after a rescue.”
“So how did you go from being a medic with the Marines to this rescue gig?”
Another song came on—“H.O.L.Y.” by Florida Georgia Line. He hummed along.
“After the survival show and the fiasco with my parents, I just needed to get away. I hadn’t really considered the SAR option, although I had met a private SAR team the summer a tornado came through our town. They were from Montana and helped rescue some local high school kids who’d been trapped. I was on leave from the military at the time and thought I’d be a lifer. So it wasn’t on my radar at all. But then suddenly I was back in Minnesota, not sure what to do with my life. My cousin Ranger and his wife, Noemi, had moved to Minneapolis, and my brother Steinbeck was hanging out with him, so I went along. And pretty soon Ranger was calling up Dodge, and a few days later, I was moving in with London and training in the snow.”
“Steinbeck? After the author?”
“All my siblings are named after literary giants. My sister is Austen, I have a brother Jack?—”
“After Jack London?”
“Yep. And Doyle.”
“Sherlock.”
“Yep. And Conrad, after Joseph Conrad.”
“The Heart of Darkness. Wow.”
“Apparently Mom read it in college. It really impacted her. Said that no person should be alone in thewilderness. I agree.”
“Says the rescuer.” He smiled at her, leaned back as the waitress brought their drinks.
“One chocolate milk.” The waitress set down a frothy cup in front of him. She put a Coke in front of Boo and dropped a couple of straws.
Boo unpeeled her straw. “Yeah, well, it’s not just that. When I was eight, I was lost for two days in the wilderness.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. We were on a family canoe trip, and we’d set off on a two-mile portage. My dad and my brothers were carrying the canoes, and he told me, my sister, and my mother to go ahead. I was first and maybe a little stubborn?—”