I open my wallet to pay for my purchases. The young Inuit woman at the cash sees my NYC transit card and says “I used to have one of those.” I am so caught off guard that I neglect to ask her why she had been living in New York.
With a severe blizzard forecast, people are clearing the food shelves at Arctic Ventures. Particularly conspicuous is the absence of potato chips.
A sign hangs above one of the few tables in the Grind and Brew. Pointing down it says “order here.” It’s where the owner sits, chatting with the locals. A shipment comes in from Amazon. Someone comments “that box is big enough to fit my grandmother.” It’s full of paper towels.