“Sweet!” I say. I hop onto the back of the couch and down onto the floor. Eddie turns the radio louder and I hum along.

I look up and realize Ruth has been watching me. “Great,” she says. “Miss Perky’s up.” She rolls her eyes and goes back to her magazine. Oops. But Ruth’s late-night obnoxious selfie is enough to keep me going all morning. Even if she’s snippy now, that picture has to mean she’s at least sort of okay. That the worst stuff isn’t happening again. I’ll keep on keeping tabs, of course.

Curled up on the little couch, I eat a quick breakfast, toss my yogurt carton away, then look out the window at the glorious day. The brush is thick on either side of us, but the land is flat and the sky is open and bright and cloudless. I watch out the window for a while, looking for picture inspiration, then climb back into my loft.

My phone battery is getting low. It’s time for my turn with the car charger again. But I have a text from Mom that says Call me.

“It came,” says Mom immediately.

“Oh, good!” It is a photography book I ordered that didn’t come in time, a book with tips from real National Geographic photographers. “So you’ll bring it to San Diego?”

“Yes! How’s everything going so far? You guys okay?”

“We’re all doing great. We’re past Tuscaloosa now.”

“Oh wow! And you guys slept in the RV last night?”

“Yep. It was cool. I miss you, though,” I say.

“Oh, Olivia, I wish I could be there.” She clears her throat, and I know what she’s going to ask next. “How’s Ruth?”

I knew she was going to ask that, and for maybe the first time I wonder about why. There are tiny questions beginning to whisper from opposite corners of my mind. Mom asks me how Ruth is doing because she knows I can handle the responsibility, right? That she can rely on me to keep the upbeat going. And that feels good, and feels like me. I want to be that person. But if that’s a real, honest answer, then why do I also feel like I could truthfully say that I’m worried? How heavy a load on her shoulders would it be if I told her both answers? What would she do if I said I wanted her to know that yes, I, Olivia, am a happy person, but also, very frequently, anxious?

I glance down at Ruth. She’s not curled into a ball. That’s something. The tattoo square is still on her shelf, peeking out from under her notebook.

“She’s okay,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Mom.

“Hey,” I say. “Remember those murals in Las Cruces? When we were on the drive to Knoxville?”

“Murals?”

“At that park, remember?”