It is 10:00 p.m., more or less. I’m sitting in the comfiest chair in my teacher apartment in bush Alaska, where I will be for two more weeks. In the bush, not in the chair. Although it is a pretty nice chair. . .

But I digress.

I hear a sound that at first I don’t recognize. But after a few repetitions it begins to resolve itself: someone is knocking on a door. It sounds to me like the person is knocking on the other door to this duplex, so I don’t stir. The other door is where the principal lives, so it makes sense that the person would be looking for her.

The knocking continues. Maybe it is my door. I look out the window and see a young man on my porch, waving apologetically. I open the door.

“The barge is in,” he says. “We need someone to accept the fuel for the school.”

I ponder this for a moment.

“I don’t know,” I say finally. “I’m just a substitute. The principal lives over there.” I point to the other door.

“OK,” he says. “Thanks. Sorry to bother you so late.”

I indicate that there is no problem, he notes that we met at the softball tournament the previous weekend, I recall his name, and he moves to the other door.

The knocking recommences. The principal, being new, is at first as befuddled as I was, but soon rallies while I fade discreetly back into that awesome chair. The principal’s part in the saga continues, involving (among other micro-adventures) a trip to the school to use the VHF radio. The custodian was evidently asleep, but soon he is roaring past the building on his four-wheeler, bound for the barge ramp.

Fuel delivery, accepted and installed. Everybody can go back to bed now.