It was time to come clean.
Pulling out of Valdez, heading toward Anchorage (in the rain, as always) my sore tooth throbbed to the rhythm of the windshield wipers.
“I have a toothache.”
The rig swerved slightly on the wet road as Jim turned to look at me.
“How bad?” he asked.
“Pretty bad. Root canal bad, feels like.”
“Since when?”
“I almost told you in Dawson City so we could turn around and go back to Whitehorse, but then I remembered the fires closed the road.”
“So, you’re in pain all this time?”
“Well, you know …”
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