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The dogs howl and yip, waking me from my deep sleep, as they tell me and know uncertain terms that they are ready for breakfast.

I slide my legs out from under the warmth of three comforters I always sleep under. When the

souls of my feet miss my slippers and hit the cold concrete, I want to scream at the top of my lungs,

but I don't. This is my life. Some call it penance. But we all have to play our part. So I call it

what it is.

Duty.

Trying my best not to whimper and whine like a husky pup, I get dressed and slide into

my slippers, skipping the shower since I took one last night before I went to bed.

When you work a bar for 16 hours a day, it's best to wash that shit off before sliding

between the sheets.

Slippering my way out of the bar's back room, which doubles as my bedroom, I walk into the

kitchen and start the coffee. Thick, black, mean. That's how we drink coffee up here on the edge

of the Arctic. There's no time or room for weak coffee in these parts.

I throw some bread in the toaster, then fetch the giant tub of margarine out of the reach-in.

I find the even more giant tub of peanut butter and set both on the stainless steel table as I wait for the toast to ding.

The bar's commercial kitchen isn't big, but it isn't small.

...