“My mom must not have a compass, either,” she says. “She was glad when she lost her job. So her work must not be that important to her.”

“Or maybe her compass points to her family. To you,” Frank says.

“My mom works no matter what. She runs her company. She travels. She’s never home,” I say as we look out over the water. Across the ocean is Japan—and Mom. “Maybe, I guess, because of her compass?”

He nods again. “Sometimes the pull from this compass takes us away from the people we love.” He puts an arm around each of us and pulls us in.

I feel my shoulders loosen from the weight of his arms. And also, maybe, from his words. “A compass tells you where you’re going, right?” I say in a small voice.

Our father squeezes me tighter. “A compass points you in the right direction.”

CHAPTER 41 Mattie

The closer we get to my house, the more my stomach ties itself in knots, as tightly woven as the rope of the hammock. Mercedes helps me give Francisco Gómez directions. As he turns onto the street where Bob’s house is, my hands go cold and sweaty. I wipe them on my jeans and ball my fists so I can’t see the bubblegum-pink nail polish on my fingers. He pulls the Prius into the driveway. I squeeze my eyes shut. I see stars blinking so I open them again. All the choices we made over the last twenty-four hours stack up on my shoulders. What will my mom say? How much trouble will I be in? What will happen when she sees Francisco Gómez?

The three of us are silent in the car. No one moves. Mercedes doesn’t look at me, just stares out the window. I can see her forehead wrinkle like she’s trying to solve an impossible math problem.

And then the bright-red front door opens. My mom comes out in shorts and a sweatshirt. She walks barefoot on the brick sidewalk to the driveway. She waves, she squints, shielding her eyes from the sun. I scramble out of Francisco Gómez’s car. I run to her and bury my face in her shoulder. Her hair smells freshly washed with the same shampoo she’s always used. The scent reminds me of my old home, of Saint Paul, of Minnesota, of cold autumns and snowy winters. Of all the nights and days of just me and her. My mom and me together. The two of us. It smells like home. And I realize this is home. Wherever she is.

“What’s the matter, Mattie-mouse?” She strokes my hair. “How was the sleepover? Did something happen at your friend’s house? Why are you crying? Are you okay?”