Fic: Off the Grid - Part One (rated M)

[astralscript]

Chapter 1: But I'm Stuck in Colder Weather

He twitched in his seat when the slow churn of the landing gear lowering vibrated below him. Stiles pulled his fingers into his sweaty palms, glanced out the window at the cloudy sky, and tried his hardest not to think about every plane crash in every movie he’d ever seen. What was he even doing on a plane? What was he even doing in Alaska? A part of him was still convinced the whole thing was an elaborate joke Scott had managed to formulate, because somehow, this whole situation had morphed itself into every level of hell imaginable as far as Stiles was concerned.

But he knew it was real. He knew because his best friend would never joke about his dad. And Stiles remembered bits and pieces of moments as the ranger told him over that phone that John Stilinski had disappeared. He remembered being eight years old and having Copper River Salmon on special occasions. He remembered the ski lessons his dad had started him on the winter before his mom died. And when the ranger began to say, “No one knows when or how…because your father wanted it that way…he was disconnected from the world. He was-” Off the grid, Stiles had finished. Because when he was ten years old and mourning the loss of his mom, those were the exact words he overheard the lawyers say to Melissa - that there was no use trying to find or contact John. He was gone.

And so Stiles may have gained an unhealthy hatred for those things he connected to his dad: snow, fish, fast food, the law… He moved to San Diego with Scott for school and never looked back North again. He went back to Beacon Hills for Christmas at the McCall’s, but Stiles never felt at ease in that town. He needed distance from the familiar there, to not be reminded of the memories that at first he’d clung to so desperately, but now could barely reminisce over even if he wanted to.

He’d made a life for himself, savoring a fresh start with no baggage. Nobody outside of Beacon Hills ever looked at him like they knew his mother died a slow, torturous death in front of him; or like they knew his father couldn’t handle the loss of his wife so he up and left his son in the hands of his best friend’s mother. When college started, Stiles was free of those looks, and the assumptions that followed them. He grew up and into himself, less spastic and nervous, and more--well, more controlled but still a bit jittery at times.

He and Scott got an apartment. They played lacrosse, surfed, soaked up the sun. Stiles even missed a midterm once when he heard there were good waves at a beach two towns over. And thank the fates that he did, because meeting with his professor, Dr. Oliver, to discuss the makeup test is what sent him on his path of cultural anthropology and archaeology. And thanks to Dr. Oliver, he got his internship at a crazy awesome museum in Arizona, did his field school there, and got a job as a consulting researcher at contract firm. He’d just got back from finishing a field study in Guatemala when he got the missed call and message from Ranger Camwell.

The Ranger had seemed nice enough, even sympathetic to Stiles situation after he’d explained it. But it didn’t matter that he had been estranged from his father for almost fifteen years. Stiles was still John’s next of kin. And apparently his property in south western Alaska was extensive. Also remote.

“Define ‘remote’?” Stiles had asked.


Ranger Camwell cleared his throat. “Well, you could take a chartered plane in… Or you could hitch a ride in through the park, get dropped at the bridge and walk over to the town.”

Stiles sighed at the convolution of it all, just to get to this town that was disconnected from the rest of the world. Why did he need to go out there to claim a place he didn’t even want? To declare someone dead he didn’t even honestly know?

“How much would a charter ride be? Say, from Anchorage?”

“Oh boy,” Camwell replied. “Getting someone to take you…an outsider…Probably $1400. Actually, more toward a full two grand.”

“What?” Stiles squawked. “That’s insane.”

“You know, your dad was sort of acquainted with a guy--I think they were fishing buddies - who makes trips to Anchorage and Fairbanks every week or so. He might be inclined to pick you up and bring you in.”

And that is how Stiles found himself sitting outside the Fairbanks airport, holding his small carryon bag, wearing a light North Face jacket he’d borrowed from Scott, while hitting the call button over and over again trying to get a hold of Neil Cassey, outdoorsman extraordinaire. The man would only communicate with Stiles through email, but managed to finally include a cell number he said would be in service on the grid.

Stiles pulled out his trifecta energy bar, gluten free, vegan, and organic, upset he had to resort to his stash so soon because of unbridled hunger, but convinced if Neil was even coming at all, he would be two hours late. He reached up to take a bite when a voice rattled off from behind him.

“Boy, did you get my packing list and disregard it completely or do you not understand that this is Alaska?”

Stiles bolted upright losing his energy bar to gravity as he swung around to see an older man staring back at him. Well, he wasn’t wearing red flannel and suspenders, but he did have a salt and pepper beard. And this was a true Alaskan mountain man, according to Ranger Camwell. Neil was wearing jeans and a midweight coat. His hair was tied back behind a cap that shaded his shrewd, beady eyes.

“Neil Cassey,” the man said, apparently unfazed that he had just snuck up and changed the rhythm of Stiles heartbeat. Stiles shook his hand and stuttered out his own name in return. This got him a mild smile from the older man, who started walking away asking, “You pack anything warmer than that jacket? Otherwise, your southern sensibilities are going to get frostbite and fall off…quickly.”

“It’s really not that cold right now,” Stiles offered with a smile. “And I don’t plan on staying too long, you know, just until I can get whatever this is sorted and be done with it.”

Neil eyed him with a puzzled look but kept walking in silence. After scaling up to the second story of the parking garage, they got in a beat up green Bronco and Stiles felt the silence eat at him. Or was that his hunger?

“We can stop somewhere on our way out,” Neil offered.

Yes. Food.

“I really think-” Stiles began but was cut off when the mountain man started singing Folsom Prison Blues. Stiles clutched his messenger bag as Neil sped down the road in the direction of a strip mall. They exited the truck in silence and Stiles stared at the parkas in the window as they approached the store, feeling more and more repulsed by the implication of cold or snow by the minute.

“You might think you’ll get things figured out and be done with it, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be done with you,” Neil imparted in his cryptic mountain man way before walking into the store.

“She who?” Stiles stood outside with his mouth hanging open. “Who is ‘she’!?!?”

Neil disappeared in the store behind racks of jackets and fishing overalls. Stiles could not believe this was his life. He took a deep breath and entered the store, seeking out the man that was supposed to be his Alaskan guide. Neil already had two fleeces, a heavy coat, a rain coat, a parka, three sets of long underwear, and five pairs of wool socks, before he turned to Stiles and asked what size shoe he wore, and that he hoped it was okay that he just assumed Stiles’ New Balance were not waterproof.

“What do I need waterproof shoes for?” Stiles questioned.

“What do you need waterproof shoes for…” Neil repeated and grabbed a box from the Keen rack. “These’ll do…for now. I might have a pair of snow shoes or boots a size different than yours. You might not be here the whole winter so let’s not get a head of ourselves.”

“W-w-winter?” Stiles stammered. “It’s the first week of September!”

“You’re right,” Neil offered. “We should get more layers.”

Stiles would have thrown up his hands in bafflement if not for the pile of winter garments he was holding. By the time they reached the checkout, he was sure he’d have to remortgage his condo before he could afford all the items Neil deemed “necessary for survival”.

With every beep of a scanned item Stiles heart sank lower; $70 for a synthetic pair of long underwear? $30 for a pair of socks? He’d already pulled out his card and was thinking he should just hand it to the cashier before he heard the total, otherwise he might just cut and run and head back to San Diego. But Neil gave the guy an American Express before Stiles even had to talk himself down from disserting.

“Hey man, I can’t let you pay for all of this,” Stiles began, then his eyes fell on the total, $733.82, and he started shaking his head.

A chuckle escaped Neil’s lips before he leaned in and whispered, “It’s your dad’s card, Stiles.”

“My dad is dead,” he replied.

“Maybe so,” Neil stated. “But his card ain’t.”

Before they left town, Neil took Stiles to a super grocery, got him an ice chest, and forced Stiles to buy enough food for a month. He also bought a rotisserie chicken and ate the entire thing in less than five minutes. Neil watched on, shaking his head from time to time while he munched on salmon jerky. He’d offered some to Stiles, who shook his head and gave him a big, “No thank yewwwwwww” in reply. By the time they were packed up and ready, it was nearing 10 pm, and Stiles was feeling the effects of travelling.

“I’m pretty worn out. How long’s the drive gonna be?” he asked.

Neil remained ever stoic on the driver’s side, but titled his head to give Stiles a brief glance. “Well, tonight we’ll drive to the campsite in Chitina. Then I’ll fly you into McCarthy in the morning. I know you have a meeting with Ranger Hale at 11 so we’ll be on a tight schedule.”

Stiles shook his head. “You mean Ranger Camwell. I’ve been talking to Ranger Camwell about the incident report and all the things.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles squirmed. “All the things! The things you have to do to declare someone dead when they died on National Park land.”

Neil sighed. “Well, Camwell went back south to Washington for the season. It’s Hale in charge up there now for the winter.” Stiles couldn’t hide his disappointment. Not only had he established a working relationship with Steve Camwell, but the ranger had basically promised to make the situation go as smoothly and quickly as bureaucratically possible -- something that was beginning to worry Stiles the more he spoke with Neil. As if sensing Stiles’ apprehension, Neil added, “You’ve nothing to worry about with Hale. He’s fair. Very much a rule follower…Can’t say I’ve ever seen him smile…but we’ve had worse NPS up there. Though you won’t hear anybody else-save me-admit that.”

“What? Why?” Stiles asked.

“The only people McCarthy locals don’t hate are McCarthy locals. They absolutely loathe the Park Service and interlopers.” Neil smiled.

Stiles didn’t know what to make of what he was hearing. He was under the assumption the only driving force of the McCarthy economy was the sightseeing and backpackers that came through the town to visit Wrangell-St. Elias. “So who are the interlopers?”

“Tourists,” Neil answered. “You.”

“Me?” Stiles croaked. “Don’t they know I don’t want to be there?”

“You better not tell them what they do or do not know.”

“Dear God, where are you taking me?” Stiles groaned. “My father was not a local. He was born and raised in California. Did they hate him?”

Neil sighed. “No.”

Silence settled over the car and Stiles eventually drifted off. When the truck began to slow, he could see civilization again, which he assumed was the small town of Chitina. They pulled up to a small tent cabin, its second half and the roof only consisting of canvas. Stiles fell out of the Bronco and followed Neil inside.

After they were settled in, Stiles curled up in a sleeping bag on the bottom bunk but couldn’t quite get warm or comfortable.

“Stop squirming,” Neil said from the top bunk.

“I’m cold.”

He heard a sigh and then the clank of keys on the floor below.

“Go get the long johns.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. After making his way outside in the dark and feeling his way through the cab of the truck, he’d grabbed the damn $70 synthetic glorified tights and was heading back to the tent-er-cabin, when he heard a loud crush of gravel behind him.

He froze.

Crunch. Crunch.

Stiles turned around in time to see a large shadow on the other side of campground, a shadow that was imminently approaching his personal space. At an alarming rate. He froze.

And then when it was about fifteen feet away, realization dawned on him and he made a break for the door of the cabin.

“BEAR!” he screamed and flailed his arms above his head. “THERE’S A BEAR!”

Stiles ran into the cabin, slammed the door, locked it, and repeated, “Bears. Beets. Battlestar Galactica. There’s a bear. Oh my god. He’s out for a midnight snack. And I’m all plump and ready after that chicken and, Jesus, he’s got my scent! He’s gonna get us.”

“Calm down you idiot,” came Neil’s disinterested voice. “It’s just a bear.”

Stiles scoffed, “Just a bear. Just a bear he says. Just big shiny teeth and long sharp claws.”

“Go to bed, Stiles,” Neil said.

“Bed he says, as if I could sleep knowing there are bears out there.”

“If it comforts you to know, they’ll be hibernating soon.”

Stiles shook his head and climbed into bed, his eyes still glued to the door. “Sadly, I find little comfort in that at this current moment. How are you not freaking out right now?”

He heard Neil chuckling and waited for a response. There was none.

Chapter 2: Just the Bear Necessities
Stiles couldn’t remember falling asleep--he couldn’t remember unclenching his jaw and letting the adrenaline seep out of his system. But he slept, and he dreamed he was running through a dark woods. Someone was running with him, behind him. They were chasing him. No matter how far or how fast, he couldn’t seem to shake them. He’d cut around a bend, go over a ridge, trudge across a creek, but he couldn’t lose his pursuer. Finally, he tripped on a log, fell and hurt his wrist. He examined it closely only to look up into the eyes of the one who followed him. Blue. They were a stark, arctic blue.

And when he woke, he didn’t remember his dream, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Neil quickly replaced Stiles’ contemplation when he thrust a bag in his face and gave him five minutes before they’d head out.

After he dressed, Stiles poked his head out the door and examined the camp for any sign of the bear.

“Hey, BooBoo?” he chimed.

Nothing.

Satisfied, he stepped out and met Neil at the car. The crisp air startled him. It was cooler than the day before, so he got in the cab, found the heavier coat Neil forced him to buy, and put it on. After being informed that this was one of the last places he might get cell service, Stiles whipped out his phone and called Scott.

“Hey buddy, hey pal, best friend and confidante,” Stiles cooed.

He could hear Scott yawning. “Stiles? You need me to pick you up already?”

“No, oh no, not yet, it’s been less than a day, jeez. No, Scott, I just wanted to tell you that my last will and testament is in the drawer next to my computer, and if anything should happen to me, you can have my stuff.” Stiles shivered as a dark image of a bear flashed through his mind.

“How is it up there?” his friend asked.

“How is it? It’s everything I hate and more. I paid a buck ninety-nine for a Snickers and it wasn’t even a King Size. Scott,” Stiles whispered. “This is your last chance to come out with the punch line.”

“There's no taxes. Wait, you ate a Snickers?”

“My blood sugar was low,” Stiles croaked. “The guy seems to think this might take more than a few days.”

Scott giggled, “You mean the husky mountain man?”

“Okay, first of all,” Stiles frowned, “this guy is like sixty years old.”

“But there have been mountain men? C’mon Stiles, that is the one thing you said you were looking forward to…What did you say? Lumberjack flannel and suspenders?”

“God, Scott, no! That must be your fantasy, not mine.” Stiles laughed, acutely aware that his friend was completely straight and probably cringing on the other end of the phone.

“Why does he think that it will take longer?” Scott questioned.

“I don’t know, but he loaded me up with enough gear to run the Iditarod.”

“Do you get to drive a sled team?” Scott was unable to hide his excitement.

Stiles rolled his eyes and turned to see what Neil was doing. He was on the other side of the campground bent over on the ground. He appeared to be examining the tracks left by the ferocious beast the night before.

“Scott,” he whispered, voice faltering. “I’m really out of my element here. How am I supposed to do this?”

He heard a sigh on the other end. “Maybe this is a chance for you to finally say goodbye. Maybe get some closure.”

“Why thank you Dr. Phil, your insight and advice are what is going to get me through this unthinkable situation.” He couldn’t hide the indignation in his voice.

“You know what, Stiles? Seriously, when was the last time you thought about your dad? You haven’t even been to your mother’s grave since before high school. He may have run away but you’ve done your share of it too.”

Stiles stood, phone to his ear, mouth open, and speechless. Did his best friend really just compare him to his dead-beat dad? For a few moments there was nothing but the sound of his staggered breaths and the rush of adrenaline through his veins. He heard the engine of the Bronco roar to life.

“I’m not my father,” Stiles managed to say. “You didn’t know him and you don’t get to sit there in your comfy beach house and lecture me on closure, not when I’m up here in the freaking Alaskan wilderness getting accosted by bears and led into the hillbilly town of the Yukon. And you know what? Screw you, Scott. There’s no excuse for what he did, and I don’t need closure, I need to not be this far away from the equator. This is the one time I needed you to be there for me and you can’t even do that right. Go catch a wave or something. I have to go be responsible for officially ending someone else’s life.”

He hung up and ran his hand over his hair. Stiles wished that bear would come back and fight him like a man, in the daylight, when he had the will to stand up and do something stupid. Why was Scott suddenly psychoanalyzing the situation? There wasn’t even a situation, nothing, nope. Just his dad. No, not even his dad. Just a dead guy, well, presumed dead guy, and his extensive property to deal with. Stiles wondered what the going rate for nine acres outside McCarthy was, and what exactly “thrown together rustic cabin” meant to a mountain man. Because to a realtor, there might be a certain charm to be-

“Kid, you gonna stand there all day or are we gonna go?” Neil called from the open door of the truck.

Stiles let out a shaky breath and ran to the cab. The anger pumping through him quickly turned to nervous energy after Neil informed him the bear from the previous night was “probably an eight-hundred-pounder”. Stiles couldn’t conceal the squeak he emitted as he clutched the handle of the car door.

“But that’s after a summer of non-stop hunting and eating,” Neil added.

“Right,” Stiles muttered. “Right.”

They drove to the small runway, loaded up Neil’s bush plane, and readied for takeoff.

Stiles tried his best to hide his displeasure at having to fly again as he shoved a power bar in his mouth.

“You got a camera?” Neil asked. Stiles nodded. “You’re gonna wanna get it out. Even if you don’t like nature, you’ll be impressed with what you see today from the sky.”

And was he…Impressed? Try floored. Stiles had never seen anything quite like this. The snow covered mountains and the trees--there were trees everywhere. And everything was so big. The park, he was told, was the size of Switzerland. By the time they made it to McCarthy, Neil pointed out his plot of land outside the town, on a ridge, that had been in his family for almost a hundred years. Then he flew them over the area owned by Stiles’ father. It wasn’t as impressive but Stiles could make out a small cabin beneath some trees before they flew back to McCarthy to land the plane.

“It’s gonna be about four miles up to Kennecott and the rangers,” Neil explained. “I can drop you at your dad’s place and you can take his rig up there yourself.”

“But it’s already 10:40,” Stiles said, glancing at his watch. “Can you take me up there now, instead?”

“No.”

Stiles licked his lip nervously. “Well, okay then. Tell us how you really feel.”

Neil continued to ignore Stiles until they were driving up a “road” to the cabin.

“You can get some necessities at the town store if need be. There’s also the Saloon that has decent enough food and a side liquor store. I wouldn’t go out down there too much if I were you, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“You don’t want to deal with the locals.”

Stiles was sure Neil was right, but he couldn’t understand what exactly he meant by “deal with the locals”. After looking around the town as they drove through, and there wasn’t much to drive through, Stiles couldn’t understand what the big deal was. It was just a town. There was a hotel. A few abandoned buildings. What did the locals have to be so proud of?

Neil left him after showing Stiles how to use an old radio system on the porch and directing him to his dad’s old Chevy that “sticks in second”. Stiles left his bags and ice chest on the porch, not wanting to go into the home of his dead, estranged father just yet, and also acutely aware that he was almost forty minutes late for his meeting with the ranger.

He drove back to the town of McCarthy and then followed the road up to the old mill town of Kennecott, where a few people still lived including the park rangers. The dirt road up, and who was he kidding, they were all dirt roads, but this one was particularly bumpy and narrow, was ensconced in trees and steep run offs. He learned just how narrow and how steep it was when he was forced to pull over to the side and stop for an oncoming truck to pass. The guy driving reminded Stiles of Neil, except for the exceptional scowl plastered across his face when he met Stiles’ eyes. A few minutes later, he drove by a crude looking house with more than a half a dozen old vehicles scattered around it, and assumed the man had come from there.

The actual mill town looked nicer than anything else he’d seen so far. Some of its buildings were refurbished and they all had a bright, vivid brick red to them, complete with white window trim. After he parked in a place he was sure he wasn’t supposed to, he made his way up to the main street-er-walkway, and found the visitor’s center. And by visitor’s center, he found the small shop area that had an open sign.

A perky looking young lady ranger popped her blonde head up and smiled, greeting Stiles with a bit more enthusiasm than he thought was customary.

“Hi, um, I’m looking for Ranger Hale?” The ranger’s smile wavered. “I’m supposed to meet him, or I was supposed to at eleven, but my flight got in later than expected, and then I had to go drop off my stuff and…I’m not a,” Stiles made air quotes, “’local’ so I don’t really know where I’m going and what not. For a while, I thought I had taken the wrong road.”

The ranger continued to force a smile as she replied, “Well, there’s few roads up here. It’s hard to get lost. Um, Ranger Hale stepped out a couple minutes ago to check on some things down at the construction site.”

Stiles glanced out the window and down the street-er-walkway. There seemed to be some activity in front of the actual mill structure. He pointed to it, “Just there?” he asked. He made his way for the door, but the ranger’s voice stopped him.

“You can wait here for Ranger Hale. He’ll be back soon.”

He smiled, “I really can’t afford to wait. I’ll just go meet him over there.”

“I think-” but her voice was cut off by the slamming of the door, as Stiles bolted across the walk, which was actually a road, and headed to the mill. He saw a few trucks up ahead, and crossed a large bridge-er-retired railway trellis that was over a winding, steep creek. He saw a few men outside a building, most of them wearing neon yellow and orange construction vests, but one, with his back to Stiles, was in evergreen ranger dress.

Stiles cleared his throat. The men turned their heads and stared at him, but it was few more seconds before the ranger hat peered around and a pair of pale green eyes glared in Stiles’ direction. It was kind of a slap in the face, only not really, and Stiles had to take a step back to recover from the intensity of the stare.

“Uh, Ranger Hale? I hope I have the right person. I totally thought I was going to be working with someone else. Not that I don’t want to work with you, you know, I hear great things-wonderful things-about you and the way you run things up here.” Stiles could see what Neil meant about not smiling. The man standing in front of him was all lines and points, his face carved like an exquisite statue, a beautiful, indifferent or mildly disgusted statue. “I had a meeting with you earlier. Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles licked his lips and held out his hand.The ranger stepped out of the circle, letting go of a blueprint before approaching Stiles. Hale seemed to be a pretty solid guy, and standing so close to such a domineering structure of a man made Stiles feel a bit small. It didn’t help that he was staring at Stiles like he would care less if a bear came up and pulled Stiles apart limb by limb.

“I was under the impression I would be meeting with Genim,” Hale stated.

“I am Genim,” Stiles cringed. “You know, not too fond of the name though. It gets a lot of weird looks and questions, questions I don’t even think I know how to answer.”

The ranger raised a brow, “And Stiles doesn’t get weird looks or questions?”

“Well,” Stiles gulped. “No, I’m not…You know, they’ve done studies on children who were named after relatives and-”

“I can’t start work on your paperwork until next week,” Hale interrupted, looking over at the construction workers. “These guys will be out of here for the season and I won’t be inundated with archaeologists and contractors every five minutes asking me for ridiculous permissions and privileges.” The very construction workers Hale had just insulted were looking on with crooked smiles. They didn't seem to care he'd pretty much called them ridiculous.

Stiles stammered, “S-start the paperwork? I was under the assumption Ranger Camwell had done most of the work and I just needed to sign some stuff.”

Hale turned his gazed back to Stiles. “You think you can just declare someone dead by signing your name?”

“Well, no, I mean, I don’t…I’m not declaring him dead.”

“Then what are you doing?” Hale narrowed his eyes.

Stiles stared open mouthed and speechless. The guy did not want him to be anything but uncomfortable.

“This is a very complicated process,” Ranger Hale explained. His stiffened his shoulders and continued, “I have to follow a strict set of rules, and make sure everything is in order every step of the way before I sign my name on a piece of paper declaring someone else’s life is over.”

“I understand. It’s just that Ranger Camwell told me he had it all done up,” Stiles said.

“Ranger Camwell is a seasonal worker. He gives ranger talks on phenology and teaches yoga…in Seattle.”

Stiles blinked back at Hale in confusion.

“Phenology. Keeping plant diaries.”

“Well,” Stiles laughed nervously. “I won’t hold it against him.”

“Next week,” Ranger Hale emphasized.

“I’ll be back. You can count on it,” Stiles said. He turned and rushed back to his car, trying to get as far away from Ranger Hale as possible and the anger that was building up inside him. First Scott and now this guy. What was next? Was he going to get some lip from the locals? He sped down the mountain, bouncing around the cab of the old truck, letting his anger take over. Who the hell was Ranger Hale to give him a hard time about his name? A name is mother gave him and his father let him discard. Hale probably had some stupid ranger name like Ranger Roger, or Ranger Rick, and he’d go up to innocent bystanders who were unintentionally breaking park rules and set them straight with his unpitying mouth and judgmental eyes. And what kind of person comes to a place like McCarthy and Kennecott for the winter season? Is it even considered a season? Or just hell on earth and darkness incarnate?

Stiles reached his dad’s cabin with a mind to hire Neil and evacuate himself from the situation completely. He was about to grab his messenger bag when something on the other side of the windshield caught his eye.

A dark shadow.

“Shit,” Stiles whispered.

A bear was on the porch of the cabin, its head buried in the ice chest he’d left out.

“Itsa pic-a-nic basket,” he laughed nervously, sinking down in his seat so his head was barely above the dashboard.

Great, he thought. He stayed in the cab for another ten minutes before he noticed the bear had moved on to his stash of power bars. After another ten minutes, the bear was still munching on something, and Stiles gave up. He opened the glove compartment and began shuffling through its contents. His dad had an old pack of Marlboro’s, a few lighters, an extra set of keys, and a proof of insurance that had expired in 2005. After pocketing the keys, Stiles took a look under the passenger seat and found a few maps with notes about hunting and campsites, a notebook with random pages full of numbers and dates, and an old wallet.

He heard a noise from outside the car and jumped. The bear had moved to the front of the house and was nose deep in a jar of pickles.

Stiles opened the wallet. There were no cards or IDs, no bills, but an old health insurance policy and a few pictures. His heart tensed. The first one was of his mom, probably taken when she was in college. The edges were worn down and it looked as if it had been folded in half at one point. He gulped and pulled out the second picture. It was their family portrait from when he was eight, before his mom started showing symptoms, before everything began falling apart.

Stiles thought he’d tried to wipe a tear from his eye, but before he knew it he was being jostled awake by the sound of a car horn blaring.

“Muppets and munchkins,” he shouted as hid head hit the ceiling and his eyes flew open. It took a few moments for him to orient himself, but it wasn’t long before his vision focused on the grizzly bear in front of his car as it stood on its hind legs.

The horn blared again, and Stiles turned to his left to find the source of the noise. It was Ranger Hale and the lady ranger in a park service truck. The lady ranger kept pointing at Stiles and then his steering wheel.

“You want me to honk too?” Stiles yelled. He rolled his eyes and realized they couldn’t hear him, but began laying on the horn anyway. The bear shuddered and fell to its feet, running away in the opposite direction of the house.

“Oh my God,” Stiles breathed. Had it really been that easy? “How is this possible?”

He got out of the truck and walked over to what remained of his ice chest. The rangers soon followed. Ranger Hale picked up the plastic pickle jar and held it up at Stiles like it was evidence.

“You left food out for a bear.” It wasn’t even a question and Stiles was immediately reminded of his own distaste for the ranger. All of the anger he had felt from earlier came pounding back, and this time he’d had his entire food supply gorged on by a grizzly bear. He was mad.

“You know what,” he replied. “Yeah, I let Yogi have his way with my rations. So what? The guy was craving some pickles okay? Not a lot of storks up here. Big freaking deal. I’m okay. The bear is more than okay, and I didn’t want half this food anyway. I mean come on, reindeer sausage? What the hell is that even?” Stiles grabbed the jar from a wide-eyed Hale and continued, “And you know what else? I don’t appreciate your attitude with me, Mr. Upstanding Ranger of the Year. Maybe I changed my name to avoid ethnic discrimination. You know, there are a lot of really cruel Polish jokes out there, or there used to be, I don’t know. It’s hard enough being a kid these days.” He took a breath. “And one more thing, I don’t really want to be here, and I didn’t really know my dad at all, hell, I didn’t even know he was living up here, but you were at least familiar with this case file-you knew I was up here to settle his affairs, and you didn’t even offer your condolences. So you know what, let me have my fun with the bears. I’ll be the new grizzly man. And you’re just going to have to deal with it.”

Stiles let his eyes fall from Hale’s face. He didn’t want to see the man’s reaction to the ridiculous tirade he was already regretting.

“Lucy,” he heard Hale say, “I’m going to go wait in the truck.”

The lady ranger paused beside Stiles before pulling some papers out of her bag.

“Mr. Stilinski,” she said. Stiles finally noticed her deep brown eyes. They reminded him of his own. But Ranger Lucy was fair, her blond hair tied back in a braid, and Stiles imagined she cleaned up well back in the real world, maybe, when her face did not still hold traces of minor terror brought on by a bear encounter. “We came to drop off some papers for you to get started on, um, regarding the incident report and missing persons filing. Um,” she paused. Stiles looked up and saw the discomfort on her face. He smiled and nodded, holding out his hand for the folder. She half smiled and continued, “There’s also some maps, and some guides on how to get around, uh, including one on…bear safety.”

Stiles laughed, “Of course.” He grabbed the folder and pulled it open. “Is there anything I can do? Tours? Museums? You’re bound to have some sort of collection up at the mill town, right?”

“Well,” Ranger Lucy explained, “There is an archive but we don’t normally give tours apart from the street walk and ranger programs.”

Stiles nodded. “It’s just I’m a cultural anthropologist. And that mill town is about the most interesting thing I’ve seen up here. No offense.”

“There’s also some good hiking up there. Bonanza hike, Jumbo Mine hike, and the glacier is always a good one to do.”

He held up the folder, “Alright, I’ll look into it. I guess I’ll have to find something to do for the next week.” Stiles glared in the direction of the truck, eyeing Ranger Hale who was sitting in the driver’s seat staring at the trees in front of him.

“Well, I’ll be here another week. So if there is anything you need, or if you want some pointers or…anything…I’ll be in the ranger’s office up the hill from the mill town, or in the visitor’s center during our open hours.”

Stiles tilted his head. “You’re leaving me alone with him?”

Ranger Lucy laughed and leaned in. “He’s really not that bad. And besides, you’re the grizzly man, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. That guy gets eaten alive at the end of that story.”

She winked and left him there, standing in the wreckage of his ice chest and supplies.

A few minutes later, he wondered if anyone would know that he salvaged the two unopened packets of Pop Tarts.

He gathered the rest of his undamaged things and put his hand on the doorknob. Taking a breath, he turned it and walked inside his father’s house.