I pulled open the shed door, and the hinges protested with a grating squeal. Inside, my nets hung in neat coils. This, at least, remained unchanged. I grabbed a coil of rope that didn't need checking and began working it through my hands, feeling for weak spots that weren't there.
The rhythm should have been soothing. It had been for so many years. But today, with Eric Callahan making coffee in my kitchen, the familiar motions felt like trying to meditate in the middle of a parade.
He was humming now—something low and tuneless that drifted through the screen door. My shoulders tensed.
The call had come on a Tuesday in March, crackling through the satellite phone with all the warmth of a tax audit.
"Hunter? This is Margaret Sinclair from the Penobscot Bay Island Trust."
I'd known what was coming before she'd even cleared her throat. The trust owned most of Ironhook and a handful of other islands scattered along the coast like forgotten coins.
They paid me to keep an eye on things—maintain the trails, maintain the lighthouse, monitor for erosion, and ensure summer visitors didn't burn the place down with their campfires. It wasn't much, but enough to keep me fed and left alone.
"We need to discuss the Callahan boy."
Eric.
Margaret continued. "The university's coastal resilience project has funding through the National Science Foundation. They need accommodation for their researcher. You're the only viable caretaker residence left on the island in September."
I'd stared out at the Atlantic through my kitchen window, watching the waves churn against the rocks below. "Send him to Stormbreaker. They've got the inn."
"Stormbreaker's booked solid, and it's not the focus of the research anyway. Ironhook has a unique history, Wes. It has to be you."
She'd trapped me, not with threats or ultimatums, but with simple geography. Ironhook was fifteen miles from the nearest bed-and-breakfast, twenty from any hotel worth the name. If Eric wanted to study our stretch of coast, he needed somewhere to sleep, and I was the only option with four walls and a roof that didn't leak.
The trust paid my property taxes and covered the generator maintenance. Margaret Sinclair held more cards than I did.
The screen door creaked, and I looked up and saw Eric standing in the doorway, coffee mug cradled in both hands. He'd found one of my heavy ceramic mugs—the blue one with the chip on the handle—and something about seeing him drink from it made my jaw clench.
"Morning." He sounded cheerful, like a neighbor next door, but he was occupyingmyspace.
I grunted something that might have passed for a greeting and went back to my rope. Eric didn't take the hint. He stepped outside, letting the door bang shut behind him, and wandered over to where I was working.
"So, what's the routine around here?" He leaned against a split-rail fence along the edge of the cottage's property. "I don't want to get in your way."
I set down the rope and faced him squarely. "We need to talk."
Eric's coffee mug paused halfway to his lips.
"My tools stay where they are. You need something, you ask." I gestured toward the shed. "I'm not spending my days hunting for a wrench because you thought you were being helpful."
"Got it."
"Second, we share the kitchen, but you clean up after yourself. I'm not your mother."
"Of course."
"Third, the generator runs on a schedule—four hours in the morning, four hours at night. If you need power outside those windows, you ask first. Fuel's expensive, and the boat with tanks only comes twice a month."
"That makes sense." Eric sipped his coffee. I smelled a hint of vanilla—he'd found my stash of flavored creamer. "What about—"
I cut him off. "I'm not a tour guide. If you want to know about the island's history, there are books in the library back in Whistleport. If you have questions about the ecosystem, bring your own field guides. I'm here to make sure the place doesn't fall apart, not to hold your hand through your research project."
The words were about twice as harsh as I intended, but Eric merely nodded again. For a moment, I thought I'd managed to establish the boundaries I needed. They would keep him at arm'slength, letting us get through the next few weeks without any complications.
Then, he smiled.
It wasn't a big smile, only a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth that made his eyes crinkle slightly. Still, it was warm and genuine and completely unbothered by my attempt to scare him off.
