Somewhere in Alaska: the guest house

The guest house was owned by a married couple.

We met the wife, an attractive Scandinavian-featured woman in her thirties, Julie. She showed us to our rooms, along the way introducing her daughter, an adorable, three-year-old named Kiki.

Kiki was unable to walk. Julie told us she suffered from a rare, irreversable birth defect. She would eventually graduate to a wheelchair, but for the time being was light enough to cart herself along the floor and up and down the stairs. Kiki had light brown hair, was precocious, vying for attention, surprisingly mobile cruising along the floor. I remember her at that moment as happy, smiling, cute.

It was late and things were quiet. We were getting settled when we heard the front door open, then Julie's voice, and a man's.

The words were indistinct, but you could hear the man's agitated, almost beligerant tone. They got closer and we heard him say "Well dammit, all we've heard about is this band and this is my house and if they're staying here I want to look at 'em."

Then came Julie's knock on our door. "Um, I'm sorry to bother you. Could you come say hello to my husband? He's anxious to meet you."

Next: We stepped out to face...

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