“It’s only for the closest family,” my dad told me as eighty guests boarded my $1.2 million yacht for my brother’s engagement party, while he laughed and thanked me for the free venue. I didn’t argue or beg to be included. I waited until they cleared the harbor, then sent the captain six words—and minutes later, the yacht began turning back toward shore.

For the first time, Weston had to measure decisions in hours worked.

He took a temporary inventory job at a marine supply warehouse.

Early mornings.

Steel-toed shoes.

Boxes, pumps, fenders, engine parts, scanners, and shelves.

There was nothing shameful about the work.

I had done harder work at sixteen.

The discomfort for Weston came from discovering that ordinary work was not beneath him after all. He had simply been protected from having to do much of it while someone else’s labor remained available.

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His bus route crossed the bridge near the marina.

Tessa Reed, a friend who worked around the fuel pier, saw him a few times staring through the window when Second Wind appeared between the buildings.

The boat had once been a background for the identity he wanted.

Now it represented something simpler.

Access had ended.

Three weeks after the party, he called me.