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Saskatchewan, he would act the same. Canada was a big and disparate place, full of regional suspicions and loyalties.
    As he made a dash through the puddles to the station, he steeled himself for half a dozen reports of traffic accidents that would send him and his team out on the road again. Fortunately the dispatch centre was quiet, giving him time to power up his computer and finish his coffee while he perused the daily updates and alerts for news on Phil.
    Nothing, nothing, nothing.
    He looked up at the rivulets of rain trickling down the window, matching his bleak mood. Phil was one of the few true friends he’d made since being transferred here from Fort Simpson last spring. Not a work buddy, but a friend in spirit. Not only did they share an outsider Prairie farm-boy identity, but they also shared a love of salmon fishing and country music. And in the languid hours spent together with rod and reel, they’d discovered a deeper tie — wounds of self-doubt and loss that would take a lifetime to heal. Rarely talked about, but understood through a glance or a small, sad smile.
    Chris knew that Phil’s wound was much deeper and his self-doubt threatened to overpower him some days. He also knew the danger of trying to soldier on while keeping the truth hidden. Until abruptly a line is crossed and brains are blown all over the wall of the house.
    If that happened, there would be no warning, no words of goodbye or regret. The most Phil might do is to go far away where those brains would not be found by the woman who had already endured more from him than she should.
    If so, why had he taken his son with him?
    Chris poured himself a second cup of coffee. His hand hovered over the phone as he debated whether or not to phone Jason. The man was a straight, linear thinker who took people at face value. Phil had told him he wanted to bond with his son, so as far as Jason was concerned, that’s what he was doing. Unlike himself, Jason rarely had any self-doubts.
    Even when he should.
    Chris withdrew his hand as a surge of anger took hold. Jason was the last person who would admit to worrying about Phil. As Chris sipped his coffee, the outer station door opened and his colleague Ralph from the night shift swept through in a swirl of cold and rain. He shook off his mackintosh and hung it by the door before coming through to the interior. Chris looked up, relieved to be rescued from his thoughts.
    â€œAnything going on out there?” Chris asked.
    â€œFender-benders. One accident on the 430 near Norris Point, but no major injuries. I sent Hollis up to handle it. Otherwise —” he grinned “— nothing on your watch so far but paperwork and highway patrol.” He nodded his head toward Chris’s computer screen. “Did you read about the poor bastards spotted in a dinghy off the coast below Goose Cove?”
    â€œJesus! Wouldn’t want to be caught out in that storm, especially in a dinghy. Kids? A fisherman in trouble?”
    Ralph drained the dregs of coffee from the carafe, scowling at the sludge in his cup. “No self-respecting Newfoundlander would be out there in a dinghy. Half-brained tourists, more likely. Come up from Florida or over from Europe and think what’s a little wind and waves? They won’t last half an hour in that cold if they swamp.”
    Chris scrolled through the alerts again. The one about the dinghy had come in at 7:00 a.m., barely past dawn, but to his surprise it had originated not from the detachment in St. Anthony closest to Goose Cove, but from RCMP headquarters in St. John’s. He unfolded his long body and walked over to study the map on the wall. Goose Cove was near the very northernmost tip of the Great Northern Peninsula, where it jutted into the fierce and unpredictable currents of the North Atlantic, and where the warmer currents coming up the Strait of Belle Isle collided with the frigid water coming down the coast of Labrador from