Between dainty hills peppered with alder trees and hemlock, Casper appeared. There were square houses painted white, beige, and gray; little cars parked along the sidewalk next to scooters and bicycles; and boats easing into port and bobbing lazily at the docks. Tourists moseyed about as they always did, dipping into the Casper Brewery and browsing boutiques for Icelandic souvenirs. The locals bounced from the pub to the market, nursing cigarettes, manning registers, nannying children, mending nets. Like most coastal towns, Casper leaned toward the ocean, always damp, always creaky, always
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