"You two should come to dinner. My place, or the Knickerbockers'. Olive wants you to spend the night there."
Eric started to respond, probably with some polite deflection about not wanting to impose, but I cut him off before he could retreat into unnecessary courtesy.
"We'd be grateful for the company."
Chief Callahan nodded. "Good. Knick says she's been cooking since she heard about your little adventure."
As we approached, the early evening lights of Whistleport harbor grew brighter—dock lights, streetlamps, and the warm rectangles of windows where people were settling in for the evening. Silhouetted on the dock, two figures waited.
Eric spotted them at the same moment I did. "It's the Knickerbockers! I'd recognize Knick and Olive anywhere."
The boat nudged against the dock with a gentle bump. The engine's rumble dropped to an idle, then cut entirely, leaving only the slap of water against pilings and the creak of rope under tension.
Mr. Knickerbocker didn't wait for the gangway to be secured. The moment our feet touched the dock planks, he strode toward us, his weathered fisherman's jacket flapping behind him like the wings of a determined seabird.
"You boys look like you've seen the world's underbelly." His voice carried throughout the harbor. He'd probably had decades of practice shouting over engine noise and storm winds.
Before I could say anything in response, his hand landed on my shoulder—not the careful, professional contact of the rescue crew, but something warmer and more personal.
"Grateful you're both walking around to tell the story." He smiled. "Would've been a hell of a thing to explain to Ziggy if we'd lost his best friend to the chipping of old granite."
Mrs. Knickerbocker materialized beside her husband with her arms reaching for Eric. The hug looked like it could crack ribs, full of fierce maternal energy.
"Your ears get red when you're cold." From the depths of her oversized canvas bag, which probably contained everything short of a spare anchor, she produced a knit hat in shades of blue and green.
"Mrs. Knickerbocker, you don't need to—" Eric started, but she was already tugging the hat down over his ears.
"Nonsense. That's much better, Eric. Now you look less like a shipwreck survivor and more like someone who might live through dinner."
"Right then." Mr. Knickerbocker began ushering us away from the dock. "You're both coming home with us. Dinner's already underway, and I'll be damned if we're letting you disappear back to that island tonight. Emma's out at a friend's tonight, so we've got plenty of room."
I spoke for both of us. "We'd be honored."
"Outstanding. Tom, you're invited too, of course."
Chief Callahan nodded. "Appreciate that. It's been too long since I've had a proper home-cooked meal."
It was only a few blocks walk. As a lifelong lobsterman, Knick Knickerbocker had settled and started his family close to the docks.
The Knickerbocker house exhaled warmth the moment Olive pushed open the front door. The layered scents of family life greeted us: the faint vanilla of candles burning and a hint of wood polish. Most prominent was the smell of savory chili simmering on the stove.
"Sit," she commanded, pointing me toward the chair with the authority of someone who'd been managing household logistics since before I learned to walk. "That knee's bothering you, don't try to pretend it isn't."
I wanted to argue—some reflexive need to maintain the fiction that I was fine and our morning's adventure had left no lasting marks—but the chair looked too inviting, and my knee was sending up complaints that were getting harder to ignore. I settled into the leather, which creaked welcomingly under my weight, and let her tuck the blanket around my legs.
"Better," she pronounced, stepping back to assess her work. "Eric, you're next. Upstairs, second door on the right, towels are in the linen closet. And don't argue—you smell like seaweed." Eric started to protest, probably something about not wanting to impose or track dirt through their house, but she was already pushing him toward the staircase.
A collection of family photographs clustered on the mantelpiece—formal portraits mixed with candid shots of fishing trips and birthday parties. This was what a home looked like when it belonged to people instead of serving as a refuge from them.
Footsteps on the stairs announced Eric's return. He appeared in the doorway looking scrubbed and considerably younger, wearing flannel pajama pants that were slightly too short and a UMaine sweatshirt that had seen better times.
The table was set with mismatched bowls—ceramic and pottery in different patterns that somehow worked together. Thick slices of bread waited on a wooden board, still warm enough to release steam when Mr. Knickerbocker broke the first piece.
I transferred from chair to table with minimal fuss. Eric took the seat beside me while Chief Callahan settled across from us. Mrs. Knickerbocker wielded a ladle, filling each bowl with chili.
Around the table, the conversation started small—comments about the meal and gentle ribbing about our morning's adventure. Gradually, warmer emotions began building in the spaces between words.
Knick set down his spoon and raised his water glass. "To dumb luck, a good thermos, and this guy"—he nodded toward me—"who apparently keeps his cool even when disaster strikes."
