"The man you saved. He's on Ironhook. Wes Hunter."
Another long pause.
"That boy went through hell."
The assessment caught me off guard. Dad was suddenly sharing more about one of the people he'd helped than any other I could remember.
He spoke slowly as if he were pulling the words from someplace deep. "I should have reached out after everything settled and he left the hospital. He disappeared, and then... well, small towns talk, Eric. Sometimes, the talk drowns out everything else."
I spoke in a slightly defensive tone. "He's been taking care of Ironhook Island for sixteen years. He's good, Dad. Really good.The kind of person who notices when his neighbors' chimneys aren't smoking."
Another pause. The following words surprised me. "Tell him Chief Callahan remembers him as a fighter."
The unexpected softness in his tone nearly leveled me. This was the man who'd taught me that emotions were private things and strength meant keeping your feelings locked away where they couldn't complicate situations or cloud judgment.
I considered seeing him in person, but I knew that would make me late for the ferry back to Ironhook.
"I'll tell him what you said."
"Good." Dad cleared his throat, returning to the more familiar territory of practical concerns. "Be alert out there, Eric. Islands can be isolating. Don't lose yourself in someone else's story."
"I'll keep my eyes open."
"And Eric? When you return to the mainland, bring him with you if he's willing. I owe him a conversation that's sixteen years overdue." He paused. "He was just a kid, but when we pulled him out of that wreck, he wasn't crying. He was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet I've only seen in people who think they deserved what happened."
The call ended with our usual exchange of love and promises to talk soon. I sat on the marina bench for several more minutes, watching the boats and processing what I'd learned.
Dad's carefully maintained professional distance had cracked, revealing the human cost of treating tragedy like a case file you could close and file away.
I made a quick stop to buy most of my supplies, but I decided the coffee would be something special. It was time to visit Whistleport's best coffee shop, Tidal Grounds.
The converted bait shop overlooked the working waterfront where lobster boats unloaded their daily catch. Silas Brewsterworked behind the counter, efficiently remembering the orders of every regular.
"Eric Callahan," he called out when he spotted me in line. "How's island life treating you? Your usual?"
"Please." I appreciated that he remembered my order—medium roast with a splash of cream, nothing fancy. "Island life's been educational."
"I bet." Silas handed me the steaming cup. "Ironhook's got its own rhythm. Takes some getting used to."
The coffee shop's interior mixed nautical nostalgia with genuine working-class comfort. Frayed rope hung from the rafters alongside vintage photographs of Whistleport's fishing fleet. A bulletin board near the register overflowed with community announcements—yard sales, babysitting services, and advertisements for seasonal work.
I claimed a small table near the window, intending to review my notes while waiting for the return ferry. Despite my best efforts to mind my own business, the conversation at a neighboring table drew my attention.
An older man with paint-stained fingers—probably from the hardware store—spoke around a bite of blueberry muffin. "Ironhook's lighthouse was acting up again last month. It fixed itself real quick once Wes heard about it. Say what you want about that boy, but Margaret Sinclair knew what she was doing."
My pen stopped moving across the page.
His companion, a woman whose graying ponytail was escaping from under a Whistleport Harbor Festival cap, stirred her coffee thoughtfully. "Remember how that place looked when old Pete tried to manage it after the fishing collapse? Dock falling apart, half the trails washed out." She shook her head. "Wes turned it around in his first season."
The man chuckled, but it faded quickly. "Still breaks my heart, though. The kid had hands like magic on the ice. I coached LittleLeague when he was coming up—different sport, but natural athletes are obvious." He tapped the table. "Still got his trading card from the high school fundraiser in my desk drawer. Marie keeps telling me to throw it out, but..."
"Don't you dare." The woman's voice sharpened. "Derek Morgensen's the one who should've been run out of town, not Wesley. Everyone knew that boy was headed for trouble, driving around like he owned the roads." She lowered her voice. "What happened wasn't Wesley's fault; anyone with sense knew it."
The man gave a tired laugh. "Hell, I was assistant principal back then. We all knew something was off—teachers raised flags, and coaches tried to keep them apart. But once Derek's dad started making noise at the school board..."
He trailed off, then added more quietly, "It was easier not to push it. Safer, career-wise."
I froze.
