My mom hesitated, and for a second, I was worried she was going to say something about the planets. Sometimes, in direct opposition to my wishes, she read my chart and told me things that I did not need to hear, things that became self-fulfilling prophecies, like when she told me how I could expect challenges in travel and for the next six months of my life I diagnosed my car with a flat tire whenever I drove anywhere, inventing challenges in travel where there were none, seeing as my tires were totally fine.

She had the power to get in your head, unfortunately.

This time, she spared me the planets. Instead she clapped her hands together, stood, and gave me one of her warmest, best hugs. I found myself thinking: I would miss her. I would miss this. I hugged my mom goodbye, and I felt, momentarily, weirdly, like I was going to go off to war, and then I thought that that was probably insensitive to people who did go off to war, and besides, this was hardly war; this was meant to be fun, very modestly so.

“Love you, Mom,” I said into her shoulder. The hug went on for a long, long time. My mom was great at hugs.

“Love you, baby girl,” she said. “I’m trusting you.”

THE CREATION OF THE CHORE WHEEL,
or Why You Should Always Travel with a Hammer

Ros’s bed was empty our first morning in the Lily Pad. They’d left it unmade, with the sheets kicked down to the bottom and most, if not all, of the contents of their suitcase strewn across their bedspread, like they’d burglarized their own belongings. I reached my hand across the gap and slid it between the sheets—still warm.

I was out of bed quickly. I’d taken the time to unpack and organize last night, so I was dressed in a matter of seconds, in my favorite pair of floral-print overalls, tying a bandanna around my thick, frizzy hair as I went to wake up Touchstone in his upstairs sleeping nook and find Ros, only a little concerned that maybe they’d wandered off into the river again like they had last night. Much to my relief, I found them in the kitchenette, already dressed, holding a mug of coffee.

“It’s weak and there’s no milk,” they said, grinning, “but I made it with extra love.”

They passed me a fresh mug, and I took a sip—it tasted like water with a vague coffee essence.

“It’s perfect,” I said.

“You’re such a liar,” said Ros.

“Don’t drink it all,” Touchstone called from upstairs, which was immediately followed by a thwack of his head on the eaves.