We turn, and she is asleep again, her neck like a Slinky. I stifle a laugh, and we tiptoe past her. We enter the hallway, and Scooter says, “She worked for my dad. I can’t fire her.”

“You can’t even wake her to fire her,” I say, and then burst into a fit of giggles.

Scooter laughs. The hallway is filled on one side with windows overlooking the former boat storage facility, now filled with wooden boats in various stages of restoration. Some are just skeletons, some are nearly finished. Wood and parts line the massive space, as big as an airplane hangar. Men are working slowly, meticulously on the boats, almost as if they’re performing surgery.

“These are Chris-Crafts and Rivas, like George Clooney has,” Scooter says, not an ounce of boastfulness in his voice. “They are works of art, like any painting you’d find in a museum.” He points toward a corner. “We’ve even started working on vintage cars. That’s a 1947 Ford Sportsman convertible. We’re restoring and varnishing the original wood on the car.”

He leads me to his office, a tiny space that holds just a desk with a laptop and phone, and two wooden chairs. I take a seat, my knees hitting the desk.

“And?” I ask, as Scooter sits. “What have you been up to?”

Scooter sighs, and his eyes seem to change color again, this time sadder, bluer—like a gas flame.

“You know I went to Western Michigan on a football scholarship, broke my arm in two places my sophomore year? Well, my backup went on to have a great year and become all-conference. I never played another down,” he says softly. “I was so humiliated, I dropped out of college and couldn’t return home. I felt like I’d let the town down. I felt like I let my dad down.” He stops. “I felt like I let myself down.

“So I sort of just ran and I wandered around the world,” he continues. “I worked as a deck hand and then a mate on some private yachts. I traveled along the east and west coasts, picking up jobs working on people’s boats to earn enough money to keep moving.”

“What were you running from?” I ask.

He looks at me, his eyes intense. “Rules,” he says. “I did everything I was supposed to do. Followed all the rules in the playbook, on the field and off. And where did it get me?”

“Here,” I say.

He smiles. “You’re right, Adie Lou. You’ve always been such an optimist.”

“Me? Really?”

Scooter nods. “What was that you used to say? ‘A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity. An optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.’”

“You remember that?” I say, my voice rising. “I forgot that.” I stop. “I forgot who I was for a long time, too.”