About “The Last Frontier” in a few words:

The show is a thriller-drama set in remote Alaska. After a prison transport plane crashes, dozens of inmates break free. Frank Remnick, the lone U.S. Marshal guarding the perimeter, must hunt them down, protect his town, and figure out whether the crash was an accident or part of a bigger conspiracy. It’s survival, betrayal, and family all rolled into one icy chase.

Meet the characters from The Last Frontier

Sarah Remnick

Oh my god Sarah is the kind of person who holds the whole town together and you can tell she’s doing it with duct tape and stubbornness and an enormous casserole dish. She’s fiercely practical — will mend a coat and a broken heart in the same afternoon — but also scribbles terrible little poems in the margins of receipts (don’t tell anyone). There’s this quietly terrifying competence about her, like she’s memorized every route through the woods and also the names of everyone’s childhood pets, which is oddly specific. She swears she hates fuss and fancy things but has a secret box of silk scarves she never uses, and somehow that makes her even more lovable.

Frank Remnick

Frank feels like an old river: slow, deep, and occasionally knocking over things you didn’t expect, in a good/bad way. He’s gruff, loves a sturdy joke, and has that weathered, salt-and-sun face of someone who’s been outdoors too long — though he also reads history books cover-to-cover and corrects you about obscure treaties at dinner. There’s a softness hidden under the bark; he keeps a tin of letters he never sends and talks to the family dog like it’s his lieutenant. He will probably insist he hates sentiment and then rescue a stray cat at dawn, because of course he would.

Sidney Scofield

Sidney is slippery in the best way — part charming liar, part accidental genius, and definitely the person who would talk you out of a bad plan and then invent a better one just to prove a point. He collects maps nobody asked for and knows the names of stars that sound made-up, plus he plays a harmonica like he’s in a hundred different small-town parlor nights. You can’t pin him down, he’ll tell you three different versions of the same story and you’ll like them all (maybe because they’re all half-true). He’s infuriatingly brilliant, annoyingly mysterious, and stubborn about his left sock always being clean.

Levi Hartman

Levi is the stoic type with a ridiculous soft spot for things that make no sense together — like a hardened tracker who quotes nursery rhymes when he’s nervous. He’s all steady hands and patient eyes, the person you want when you’re lost in the woods at midnight, but he’ll also laugh at a terrible pun and then glare like he didn’t enjoy it. There’s a temper under his calm that pops up in flashes, mostly aimed at injustices or bad coffee, and he has a scar he’ll tell you about in a very dramatic three-sentence story that may or may not be true. He’s quiet, reliable, and somehow keeps a pocket of wildflower seeds next to his pocketknife, which is the most Levi thing ever.