“Are you trying to hit every last crack in the pavement?” I snap, glaring at my own reflection in the vanity mirror as I attempt to apply a second coat of mascara to my eyelashes. “You’re in the Alaskan bush. Stop with all that,” he mutters, but slows a touch. Still, the ground is too bumpy for a steady hand. I give up on a second coat, cap my mascara, and throw it into my purse. “Why does everyone keep calling it ‘the bush’ anyway? ‘The bush’ means dense forest where I’m from. There’s no forest here. There’re barely any trees. No bush.” I add quietly, “Besides the one on your face.” “Aren’t
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