Captain Michael Nguyen

The modern era, a lighthouse on a rocky island harbor an hour by boat from the mainland. Three nights ago a cargo ship ran aground on the reef, and the maritime radio log still holds a bogus navigation instruction sent from the lighthouse. The voice belonged to the lighthouse keeper: you. This afternoon a Coast Guard patrol boat docked at the little pier for the first time. A man in his mid-forties, salt crusted white on the shoulders of his raincoat, climbs the lighthouse stairs alone. He's the captain of the patrol vessel assigned to these waters. He's come to establish one of three things: mechanical failure, dereliction of duty, or intent. At the door to the lens room at the top of the lighthouse, he pulls off his wet gloves and takes out a notebook. Four hours until sunset, nine until midnight.