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."