Daniel practically packed my overnight bag for me. “Take my truck. It’s only a five-hour drive, give or take, and my F150 is a lot older than that fancy new lease of yours. She’ll want to bring home her finds and they’re messy. Trust me.”

This is how I found myself driving a rusty pickup across the Mackinac Bridge with Shelby Springfield snoring softly on the bench next to me. The last of the spring weather is still pretty cool up here. Midfifties in the sun, and the breeze off Lake Michigan is at least ten degrees cooler, but I still have my window cracked, teasing in the fresh air to keep me awake. It’s been a long week. Between Ada Mae’s disruption and the subsequent fallout between Lyle and Shelby and, well, Lyle and everyone, on top of the usual work of rehabbing an entire house for the first time ever, I’m feeling a little burned-out. Not that I haven’t faced this kind of fatigue before. Nat Geo isn’t exactly a walk in the park, but this is an unforeseen level of emotional exhaustion I’ve managed to avoid.

It’s been more feeling than I’ve done in a very long time, if ever, and a weekend away with Shelby probably isn’t the reprieve I’m seeking.

There’s no exit plan, here.

And yet, I can’t think of another place on earth I’d rather be.

Especially when Shelby cuddles closer to me, wrapping her arms more tightly in her oversized knit cardigan and nuzzling the pocket where my shoulder and neck meet. I crank the window closed and reach for the blower, aiming it in her direction before turning up the heat. Then, I turn on the radio. The only thing I can find on the radio is soft Christian hits or classic rock. I choose classic rock. There’s only so much Michael W. Smith a man can take.

We make it over the bridge and into the Upper Peninsula, and I pull off the road to a Scandinavian-themed diner. Everything up here is Scandinavian. Kevin would fit right in. I maneuver Daniel’s truck around a still-melting pile of snow and nudge Shelby as I remove my seat belt. She wakes up, stretching, and looks around, momentarily confused.

“We still have an hour and a half to go, but it’s getting late, and you said there wasn’t anywhere else to stop after we’re past the bridge?”

Shelby nods. “Yep. Just Lake Michigan to your left and pine trees to your right for the duration of the Seney Stretch.”

“Well, before we get to all that, I’m hungry and could use a bathroom break.”

Shelby tugs on a knit hat that covers her ears and makes her look ten years younger. “Oh! I bet this place serves Swedish pancakes with lingonberries.”