LITMIR.BIZ

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      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      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.

      Though it would mean the six Quinn boys would be on their own for five or six months, Conor had assured Seamus that he could handle things at home as long as the money kept coming in. He had run the household for seven years now, ever since their mother had walked out. Conor cooked and cleaned, he helped with homework and meted out discipline. And he tried his hardest to keep their situation from teachers and neighbors and anyone who might consider Seamus a neglectful father. A heavy load for a fourteen-year-old.

      Brian glanced over his shoulder. His twin brother Sean was already in bed, the threadbare quilt pulled up around his chin, his nose buried in a comic book. Liam, the youngest Quinn, had crawled into bed next to Sean, curling up against him for warmth. The seven-year-old had given up begging his brother to read the comic for him and was now mouthing the words as he read for himself.

      “Bri! Check those buckets in the hall,” Dylan shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “It won’t do any good if they overflow.”

      Brian sighed. One of these days there would be enough money to fix the leaky roof and to paint the sagging porch and to pay the phone bill before it got disconnected. There was always the next run to the Grand Banks and dreams of a hold full of swordfish and the chance to offload first and command the highest price. But Brian had learned that his father’s big dreams very rarely came true.

      Though they didn’t talk about their father’s drinking and gambling out loud, Brian knew his older brothers had tried their best to deal with the lack of money. Conor had taken to meeting the Mighty Quinn when it came in, hoping to deter Seamus from a visit to the pub and a drunken all-night poker game. And Dylan had learned to hide the money jar after Seamus got home, knowing that it would gradually disappear at their father’s hand.

      “He’s not comin’ home tonight,” Sean said. “He won’t bring the boat in in this weather.”

      “Is Da all right?” Liam asked.

      “Yeah, he’s all right,” Brian murmured, getting up from the window. He wandered out to the hall and checked the row of buckets that Conor had set out to counter the leaking roof. Then he hurried back to the bedroom and hopped into bed, pulling the covers up over his chest.

      If he just went to sleep, then it would be morning and the storm would be over and his father would be home and everything would be all right. “Your feet are cold, Li,” Brian complained. “Keep ’em to yourself, ya little dosser.”

      “Shut yer gob,” Liam said. “Read me. Come on, Sean. Read me just a little.”

      The stairs creaked. “Conor’s coming up,” Sean said. “Ask him for a story.”

      But instead of Conor, their brother Brendan poked his head in the room. “Con says lights out,” he said. “School tomorrow.”

      “Will Da be home tomorrow?” Liam asked.

      Brendan forced a smile then shrugged. “Don’t know, Li. But he’ll be home soon.”

      Liam sat up and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Is he all right? My teacher said the storm was bad.”

      Brendan sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed Liam’s foot beneath the quilt, tickling it playfully. “Of course he’ll be all right. Da can steer through any old storm.” He glanced back and forth between Brian and Sean, a silent warning not to contradict him.

      “Yeah,” Brian agreed. “When I went out with Da last summer, he told me about a storm that had fifty-foot waves and wind so strong it could blow a man right off the deck. This isn’t near as bad, Li.”

      Liam’s expression shifted, now more worried. “How high are the waves?”

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