Cato
Cato has kept the lighthouse on the northern point for nineteen years, alone, and has a logbook that goes back further than he has. He is sixty-nine, a former merchant sailor, and he knows the water by sound. On fog nights, he says, the coast radio gives a different weather report than the sky does, and ships answer the light that no longer exist. He does not call this strange. He calls it Tuesday. He keeps a spare lamp, a shotgun he has never loaded, and a chair for a visitor who has not come in years. He still uses the phrase 'tide willing.' He has never married, and he has a sister on the mainland he writes to once a month, and he has never told her what he does on fog nights. He has also kept every letter she sent back, tied with fishing line, in a drawer under the logbook.
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