“Good Sports. This is a recorded line. How can I help you?” I tuck my phone between my shoulder and my ear, scoop a handful of shrimp off the bed of crushed ice onto the scale, and nod to Gus to let him know I’m going to need a sec. I step out from behind the counter and smile apologetically at the line of waiting customers. It’s the three-o’clock rush and no one, including me, is thrilled that one of the only two people working behind the counter needs to step out to take a call. The brass bell tinkles as I swing the door open to Main Street, the briny ocean air mingling with the ­salt-sweet smell of the scallops we just unloaded on the dock.

I sit on the little cedar bench outside the store, and it feels great to be off my feet. “Yes, the weighted vest. Our best seller. Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. No, it will only improve your bone density if you put the weights in the vest. Otherwise, it’s just a vest.” I wince because this is a recorded line and they don’t like sarcasm. “I’d suggest starting with the lowest level and working your way up.” I wrap it up with my standard “Is there anything else we can do to be of assistance?” I stumble over the “we” every time. I am not in a big office building with a team of trained fitness enthusiasts. It’s just me out here, taking all the calls.

I take one more gulp of the fresh air before heading back into the fish house. “Dolly, you’re home!” says Mrs. Holbrook, catching the door behind me and taking a spot at the end of the line. “I heard there was a fire.” She’s a ­good-natured busybody who lives at the top of Goose Lane. Ours is the kind of street where you can hear your neighbor’s TV if you turn yours off; she wouldn’t have missed the firetrucks.