bannock. That’s a flat bread. You might like that.” I trail closely behind Jonah as he identifies the various trays of food along the tables, courtesy of the eighty-odd people milling around Wild’s lobby, most from Bangor, but plenty who took the river down from the villages. The place is alive with a buzz of laughter and friendly conversation. Agnes was right, after all. A party is what we all needed. Jonah points to a dish of glistening yellow cubes, a thick, dark skin lining one side. “You won’t like that.” “What’s that?” I point to a bowl of what appears to be white cream and blueberries.
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