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Chapter one

Eric

A s I stepped off the ferry, the latte slipped from my hand and arced through the air like a caffeinated comet, splattering across the scuffed leather boots of a stranger. Stains bloomed across the toe caps, broadcasting my complete inability to function like a normal human being under pressure.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, cold and broad-shouldered, the human embodiment of a Maine autumn—brisk, unyielding, and clearly unimpressed by my flailing attempt to stop the cracked sample jar now rolling toward the edge of the dock.

A grunt followed by a sharp scowl. “Watch it.”

“Oh, God—sorry.” I scrambled to keep hold of my overstuffed backpack, tripod case, and what remained of Silas’s coffee. “I didn’t see you—well, obviously, or I wouldn’t have—let me pay for cleaning, or new boots, or whatever—”

He pointed at the coffee cup. “That supposed to be a gift?”

“Uh. Lukewarm. And mostly empty. But—”

“Joke.” Dry as the dock boards and just as splintery.

Still crouched, I looked up and got the full picture. His flannel shirt was worn thin at the elbows, stretched over a chest built for labor. Rolled sleeves revealed veiny forearms with the kind of muscle you didn’t get from gym memberships.

It had to be Wesley Hunter, my host for the next month.

His jaw looked cut from the same granite we were standing on, and his stubble was just long enough to catch the light.

His eyes were gray-blue and stormy, like the ocean before bad weather, and when they locked on mine, something fluttered in my chest.

Perfect. He’s gorgeous. And I just bathed his boots in latte.

The silence stretched between us. Wind swept across the dock, salty and sharp. Behind him, Ironhook Island rose in uneven layers of pine and rock, every bit as unwelcoming as the ferry brochure had promised.

“You Eric?” he asked, without softening. His chin jerked toward my scattered gear. “That all yours?”

I straightened, adjusting the gear bag sliding off my shoulder for the third time. "Uh, yeah. Thesis project. Senior year. I’ll be here a month. It’s, uh, coastal resilience research. My advisor thought Ironhook was the perfect case study—because of the fishing co-op collapse in 2018, and—"

He'd already turned and started walking.

Awesome start, Callahan. Nailed that first impression.

I grabbed my equipment and hurried after him. Twenty miles of ocean now separated me from anything familiar.

The path from dock to cottage stretched ahead, cracked asphalt threading through wild goldenrod that crowded the edges. Half-buried in the weeds, a rusted buoy caught my eye—faded letters spelling out Mary Catherine , some fishing boat long departed from Ironhook's harbor.

My silent guide moved with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested he'd walked the route a thousand times, probably occasionally in weather that would send tourists scurrying for shelter.

There was grace in his movement—utterly confident in his environment, like he was part of the island and I was something the tide dragged in.

I jogged to catch up. "So you're Wesley Hunter, right? The island caretaker?"

No response. Only the steady rhythm of boots on broken pavement.

I shifted my gear bag to the other shoulder and tried again. "Did the trust tell you what I'd be researching?"

Wes kept walking, his stride unchanged. "They said a student. That's all."

My face flushed. "Right. Well, it's about how shoreline communities endure post-industrial collapse. Economic shifts, population changes, infrastructure adaptation." The university jargon felt clumsy and inappropriate on the rugged island.

"The Ironhook Preservation Trust mentioned you'd been here a while. Must be nice, on your own in such a quiet place." I tried to match his pace. "I mean, most people dream about this kind of solitude."

He glanced back once. "People dream about a lot of things."

The cottage appeared around a bend in the path, aged cedar shingles silver-gray in the afternoon light. It perched on a rise overlooking the harbor, surrounded by beach grass. It was functional rather than picturesque, built to endure whatever the ocean decided to throw at it.

"How long have you been the caretaker here?" I tried.

"Long enough."

Wes had turned small talk into an endangered species.

"I read the trust's historical records—three hundred residents in 1995, down to barely a hundred now. But unlike other islands that just became summer playgrounds for wealthy mainlanders, Ironhook's managed to maintain its year-round community. That's what I'm here to figure out."

I pulled my phone out to check for a signal. Two bars, which was better than I'd expected. "What makes some places adapt while others just... give up?"

Wes didn't respond and kept walking.

"I believe the residents found new ways to make it work." I was talking as much to organize my thoughts as to maintain conversation. "That's what makes communities resilient—the ability to shift without losing core identity."

Wes stopped walking so abruptly that I almost collided with him. He turned, his restless gray eyes pinning me. "Resilience ain't about identity out here. It's about not drowning when the tide comes in."

Before I could answer, he'd turned and started walking again, leaving me to follow in his wake and wonder what exactly I'd stumbled into.

The cottage had windows reflecting sky and clouds and a sagging porch. It was the kind of place that would photograph beautifully for a Maine tourism brochure, assuming you could edit out the bone-deep loneliness that seemed to seep from every wind-scoured board.

Wes climbed the porch steps and paused at the door, keys already in hand. He turned and looked at me—really looked. "Hope you brought everything you need. Supply boat doesn't run regular."

The door opened with a loud creak. He stepped inside, leaving me to either follow or stand there like abandoned cargo from a ship that had already sailed.

I chose to follow.

"Dinner's at six," he said without looking back. "Don't expect conversation."

The cottage interior was perfectly ordered, everything in its place. The wood walls were painted white sometime in the distant past, now bearing hairline cracks that spoke of decades of weathering salt air.

The scent of the place wrapped around me—cedar and brine underlined by the warmer smells of coffee grounds and wool. My boots creaked against floorboards worn smooth by years of solitary footsteps.

Wes hung his jacket on a peg by the door. He nodded toward a narrow hallway. "Room's that way."

As I stepped past, my gear bag brushed his arm, and his gaze flicked to mine, lingering for a heartbeat too long before he turned away.

It was long enough to notice how the afternoon light caught the gray in his eyes, turning them almost silver.

And it was long enough to notice how the fabric of his shirt moved when he breathed.

The back room was what I'd expected: a single bed with a wool blanket and an aged wood dresser. A window looked out on scrub pine and whatever lay beyond. It was utilitarian, clean, and about as welcoming as a doctor's waiting room.

I dropped my pack and began unpacking the tech and paperwork that had felt manageable in Whistleport but was overwhelming here. My sample collection kit found a home on the dresser, glass vials catching afternoon light like a tiny chemistry set.

"Hey," I called toward the main room. "What's the Wi-Fi password?"

"Satellite. Don't expect much."

The cottage spoke in its own unique voice: the wind against windows, the distant rhythm of waves, and the occasional creak of wood adjusting to temperature changes. Through the thin walls, I heard Wes moving around the kitchen.

I unpacked my camera equipment, trying to arrange it in a way that wouldn't scream "invasive researcher with too much gear and not enough sense." The late afternoon light streaming through the window was perfect for documentation shots.

My phone suddenly buzzed with a text from Ziggy Knickerbocker, who'd been my best friend since we were kids trading hockey cards in Whistleport. He was at UMaine enjoying his final year of college hockey.

Ziggy: How's island life? Meet any interesting locals yet?

I stared at the message for a long moment.

Eric: Define interesting.

Ziggy: Hot. Mysterious. Good story material.

I glanced toward the main room and heard the sounds of dinner preparation. A knife hit a cutting board with a soft thunk, water ran, and cabinet doors opened and closed.

Eric: One out of three, maybe. Still collecting data.

Ziggy: That's not a no.

I set the phone aside and continued unpacking, finding a temporary home for each item. The smell of cooking fish drifted into the room, making my stomach remember that ferry snacks didn't really constitute a meal.

I considered offering to help and then remembered his response to my earlier attempt at conversation. Hovering around the kitchen probably wasn't going to improve our working relationship.

Instead, I pulled out my research notes and spread them across the dresser's surface, trying to organize my approach to the next month.

Community interviews, infrastructure documentation, and economic analysis were the boxes I had to check to turn this island into a case study suitable for a thesis committee.

Next, I headed partway down the narrow hallway.

When I could see the kitchen, I watched Wes continue his methodical dinner preparation, movements economical and sure.

He handled the cast-iron skillet like it weighed nothing, and I watched how his shoulders moved under the flannel, as well as the precise angle of his wrist as he flipped the fish.

I needed to understand what had brought him to this island and kept him here. It would be a key to comprehending Ironhook's resilience.