Brian

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Wind-driven rain lashed at the windows of the house on Kilgore Street. The storm had rolled off the North Atlantic a day ago, a nor'easter with the force of a tropical hurricane and the chill of a midwinter blizzard. Brian Quinn stared out at the flooded street from the second-story bedroom window, his forehead pressed against the glass.

He knew the Mighty Quinn was a seaworthy boat and that it had weathered storms much worse than this, but Brian still couldn't banish the worry from his head. Seamus Quinn was a great captain and he didn't need the Coast Guard to tell him the forecast-he felt it, he smelled it in the air and saw it in the clouds. But the Mighty Quinn was late coming in, already six days past the longest trip that Brian's father had ever made. And Brian could see the worry in Conor's eyes and the grim set of Dylan's mouth. They were worried, too.

The fishing had been bad all summer and the Mighty Quinn had been forced farther and farther out to find swordfish. But now, the season was winding down and the weather becoming more unpredictable. After the last trip, Conor had tried to convince their father to head south as so many other fishermen did during the fall and winter.

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