Mike Corey

Motels, a rented trailer, friends' apartments.

He's been kicked out of all of them.

For drinking, running out of money, or for both.

He's tried looking for work, but there's little to be had in Sitka at this time of year, when much of the town shuts down for winter.

The best he's been able to find is a part-time gig fixing gear for a shrimp boat.

And with only that meager income and his small pension, he can't scrape together enough for rent, child support, and his bar tab.

Now he's here, outside the town's grubbiest boarding house, with all his worldly possessions in two cardboard boxes.

He's heard that the old lady who owns the place has a soft spot for down-on-their-luck fishermen.

Maybe she'll take kindly to a disgraced former Coast Guard officer, too.

The front door appears to be nailed shut, so he walks down the narrow driveway past cast-off tools and rusty car parts until he comes to a side door.

Hello?

Hello?

He peers through the door's grease-stained window pane and sees a kitchen cluttered with dirty dishes and empty beer cans.

A few minutes later, a man smoking a cigarette appears and he opens the door.

Can I help you?

Hi, my name's Bob Doyle.

I called about the room.

Oh yeah, you're the Coastie.

Ex-Coastie.

Well, come on in, Bob Doyle, the Ex-Coastie.