Belle Isle, the island jewel of Detroit. The island was huge, and boasted many things to see, from the botanical gardens to the aquarium. The 982 acre island, located in the Detroit river between Detroit and Windsor, was a refreshing break away from all of the concrete and skyscrapers. The park was well maintained, with open fields, small forests, and plenty of space for someone to get away for a minute. Three small inland lakes lay nestled within the island, one at the southwestern edge and two on the eastern side of the island. Fishing piers jutted out all across the norther and southern shoreline. 

Sully found himself sitting on a bench near the lighthouse, on the southeastern corner of the island, right between the blue heron lagoon and the river facing Canada. He may have been, be some standards, a degenerate but he could still enjoy the finer things of life. This particular point on the isle reminded him of his childhood home, way across the Atlantic Ocean. He would find himself over here from time to time, decompressing all the bad he had done and reminding himself that this city was more than just another gangland scene. Sure, he had a high-rise apartment that overlooked the river, but it didn't quite stand up to the view that this particular spot gave him.

Sometimes he would find that the islands maintenance would leave the door to the lighthouse unlocked. Sully would climb to the top and stay up there for hours, watching the freighters pass by hauling all sorts of cargo, mostly cars, in and out of the city. The door was locked today though, so he found himself on the nearby bench. He sat there puffing his pipe in silence, mentally organizing his business and reminiscing on his childhood home.

Sully watched the sun start to slowly dip to his left. He puffed his pipe a few more times before cleaning the bowl out and sticking it back into his pocket. With a sigh he rose and started back to his car. He knew he had work to do, and a lot of it at that. That work wasn't going to get done while he sat here. He trailed off back to his car, hopped in and drove the loop back to the bridge. The island was quite, with a few people wrapping up picnics and what not. The bird's were no longer chirping. That song had been taken up by the crickets. Their chorus could be heard even across the bridge back on main land. 

Jacob Sullivan returned to that solemn bench only days later. He was the last alive, as far as he could tell, and his heart felt heavy for it. Had he been given the choice he would have given his life for them, but such was not the case. He pulled his pipe out slowly and packed it with his favorite tobacco. If it was to be his last, at least he would enjoy it. 

It was still hard to believe. So many in his city dead. He put the pipe to his mouth and puffed on it. After a few moments he removed the flask from his mouth and took a long drink. It went down smooth, and he tried his best to enjoy it. All he wanted to focus on in his last moments was the Emerald Isle and all its beauty. He longed for home, and regretted leaving. It was too late for regret though. He was on borrowed time.