I think of the cottage and the boat, and then of my savings, and I see an endless line of pretty pennies diving off a cliff and into the lake, like lemmings.

“Go see Scott Stevens,” Cap’n Mac says. “He’s the Chris-Craft master, the Yoda of wooden boats.”

“I remember him,” I say, thinking of the always tanned, silver-haired man, the only person my father trusted with his boat besides himself. “Thanks. Do you think he’s in today?”

“He never stops working,” Cap’n Mac says, reaching over to give Sonny a pet. “Unlike us, right, pooch? We need our naps.”

NINE

Blue Star Highway is as cold and empty as the marina. All of the ice cream shops, bike rentals and art galleries are shuttered.

SEE YOU THIS SUMMER! the signs say.

The snow has picked up, and little tornadoes of white are whipping across the narrow road that connects west Michigan’s resort communities. The bike trail, which is filled with activity May through October, is covered in drifts.

I am driving like Mr. Magoo, slower and more carefully even, my body hunched over the wheel, my eyes glazed on the road, the wipers whipping back and forth. It is suddenly dark as night, and my headlights are illuminating just a few feet in front of my car.

I barely see S.S. Boat Works through the snow. I slow the car, fishtailing slightly, and crawl into the parking lot. The building is an old boat storage facility, to which a small office has been attached to the front. It is old and weathered.

As much as Mr. Stevens must now be, I think.

I look over and Sonny is unconscious in the passenger seat, the heat blowing his ears to and fro.

“Nice time for a nap,” I say to him.

I reach for him but decide not to disturb his sleep.

“You finally have a little peace,” I whisper. “You must be exhausted.”

I leave the car running with the heat on and lock it. I pull the hood on my coat over my head and rush through the snow. I enter to find an elderly woman asleep in her chair.

The woman looks a bit like Mrs. Claus. She is seated in an office chair, her head rolled to the side, her half-glasses barely on her nose, snoring.

The whole world is unconscious today, I think.

I don’t know whether I should laugh, wake her up or just leave, but then she snores so loudly—making a sound similar to a trash truck—that she wakes herself up.

“Good morning,” she says, not missing a beat. “Welcome to S.S. Boat Works. How may I help you?”

You’re good, I think.

“Hi, I don’t have an appointment, but I’m here to see Mr. Stevens. I don’t know if he’s in or not.”