The winner was Marcel Theroux's Far North. The first few lines for that book are:
Every day I buckle on my guns and go out to patrol this dingy city.
I've been doing it so long that I'm shaped to it, like a hand that's been carrying buckets in the cold.
The winters are the worst, struggling up out of a haunted sleep, fumbling for my boots in the dark. Summer is better. The place feels almost drunk on the endless light and time skids by for a week or two. We don't get much spring or fall to speak of. Up here, for ten months a year, the weather has teeth in it.