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Like many of Pyrite’s other residents, Culann Riordan had run into some trouble in the Lower Forty-Eight and hoped for a fresh start in America’s last frontier. Pyrite is a remote island village about a mile off Alaska’s west coast. In the summer, the population peaks at around forty, mostly fishermen. The rest are the women and children hearty and unfortunate enough to belong to the family of an Alaskan fisherman.

Culann arrived in Pyrite in early June, just before the end of the school year.

Someone else would be administering the final exams for his classes. He stumbled off the ferry, dropping his near-empty thermos onto the dock. What little vodka remained soaked into the planks. Culann kicked the thermos into the water where it bobbed in the ferry boat’s wake. The captain, a fat, little man dressed incongruously in a Hawaiian shirt, smirked and reversed his engines, heading back to the mainland. Culann had been his only passenger, and no one had come to greet their arrival.

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