"Da is a Quinn. He's like Riddoc, he's clever," Brian murmured.

"I'm scared. What if he doesn't come back? They'll come and get us and take us away. We'll never see each other again." Liam's voice trembled and Brian could tell he was on the verge of tears.

"Conor would never let that happen," Brian said. He reached out and smoothed his hand over his little brother's hair. "We'll be together forever. Don't worry, Li."

The little boy sobbed softly and burrowed under the covers. Brian curled beneath the threadbare blankets and closed his eyes. But sleep refused to come. When the house grew silent, he slipped out of bed and grabbed his winter jacket from the floor, pulling it on to ward off the chill in the air. As he passed the other bedroom, he peeked inside to find his older brothers sprawled out on their beds.

The stairs creaked as he tiptoed down. When he reached the front parlor, he sat down in front of the portable television that Dylan had rescued from a junk pile in the alley. Brian flipped it on and the snowy picture illuminated the dark room. The antenna, draped with tinfoil, did little to bring the picture into focus. Brian could barely make out the weather forecaster standing in front of the map.

"This is Storm Central on WBTN-TV. Forecasters say the storm is worsening in the North Atlantic. The waves are battering the New England coast and causing many residents to head for higher ground. The barometer continues to fall, which means that we're still not over the worst of the storm. Marinas from Long Island to Maine have reported hundreds of boats ripped from moorings and destroyed. Many commercial fishing boats have also been damaged, a blow to those fishermen who have already had a bad summer season."

Brian leaned forward, trying to study the map, wondering where in the Atlantic his father was. He'd traced the route on the school atlas, but it had looked so simple then. He'd been on the boat before, far from the sight of land. Out there, everything looked the same.