Before Molly, what was it that mattered to Dan and me? When we were first married, he’d grab me the second he woke up each morning and say, “You’re here!” as if I were the answer to his dreams. I can’t remember when he stopped doing that. Granted, it would seem tedious and downright weird if he kept it up indefinitely, but there was a clear appeal in knowing exactly where I stood with him.

* * *

Inside the oval hoop is a swatch of my mother’s favorite cotton blouse, the one with tiny umbrellas printed all over it. For some reason, I’m inspired to stitch a message: “Do the thing you fear.”

Not the thing your mother fears. The thing you fear. I hope Molly will understand the difference.

Something extraordinary flashes past my line of sight. “Molly, slow down,” I say. “Look over there.”

It’s a turnoff marked Leaning Tower of Pisa, Iowa.

“Let’s check it out,” I say.

Molly looks dubious. Her gaze flicks to the dashboard clock. I feel a twinge of annoyance at her eagerness to reach our ultimate destination. Can’t she slow down, just a little?

“You’re the one who wanted me to watch the scenery and chill,” I remind her. “We’re making good time,” I point out.

“All right. Let’s do it.”

We go take a look at the leaning tower, and it is exactly that. A water tower that has listed to one side. In the next big wind it could topple, explains a placard in the field beside it. We take pictures to email to Dan. We’ve been calling him to check in each day. The conversation is predictable—we’re to keep the tank full and check the oil and tire pressure at least once a day. We’re to take care of ourselves.

“See?” I try not to act too smug as we return to the car. “You learn something new every day.”

Molly decides to give me a turn at the wheel. She wants to phone Travis and she’s not allowed to do it while she’s driving.

“No freakin’ signal,” she says, scowling at the screen of her cell phone. “That’s lame.”

“You’ll just have to watch the scenery and chill.”

She rummages in her bag and pulls out the folder of information sent to her by the college. “Kayla Jackson from Philadelphia,” she says, referring to her roommate. “I wonder what she’ll be like.”

“Lucky,” I say. “She was matched up with you, wasn’t she?”

“Her mother’s probably saying the same thing. Oh, man, what if we can’t stand each other?”

“You said she sounded great in her email.”

“Sex predators sound great in email, Mom.”

My head whips in her direction. “How do you know that?”

“Everybody knows that. Geez, don’t get your panties in a twist. I don’t talk to perverts on email. I don’t talk to perverts at all.”

“Suddenly I feel as if we haven’t discussed this topic enough.”

“What, perverts? I’ll talk about perverts anytime you want, Mom.”