“I’m saying that no one except you gets to decide what makes life real,” Willa says. “Key West doesn’t have to be the end. It can be the beginning.”

“Do you really think it’s that easy?” Taylor asks.

“No, but—”

The outboard splutters to a halt.

“What the—” Willa yanks on the starter, but the engine only makes a weird wheezing sound. She tries again. Nothing. Once more. Still nothing. “You have got to be kidding me! You wait until the very last second to die? How the hell am I going to sail this boat into that harbor?” Taylor laughs as she opens the cockpit locker and takes out the towrope. “Still sure about that real-world theory?”

“What are you doing?”

“I have a plan.”

“What is it?”

“Just watch.”

Taylor lowers herself into the dinghy and motors around to the bow of the boat, where she ties one end of the towrope, ties the other end to the dinghy—and guides the boat into the marina.

24.5465° N, 81.7975° W

Start here.

Willa

WHEN FINLEY DONOGHUE DIED, THE funeral procession was incredibly long. So long that the Sandusky police department had to change the traffic light sequence through town so all the cars could stay together. Even though Finley hadn’t wanted that kind of funeral, she would have loved knowing she backed up traffic for miles.

In Key West, her procession is much smaller. Just two girls pedaling their bikes at six o’clock in the morning toward the place where Whitehead and South Streets converge. The golden light of sunrise turns the sea bright turquoise and the Key West roosters crow in the distance, welcoming the new day.

Willa and Taylor kickstand their bikes and approach the big concrete buoy that marks the southernmost point of the continental United States. The buoy is taller than both of them, and painted red, black, and gold.

They have reached terminus.

Now there is only one more thing to do before their trip is officially complete.

Taylor places the bottle of Finley’s ashes at the base of the buoy, under the words “Key West, FL.” Willa feels simultaneously happy and sad, and she tries to understand how it is possible for opposite emotions to take up the same space within a heart.

Taylor snaps a photo of the ashes, then looks at Willa with a tear tracking down her cheek. Her voice cracks. “I thought I was ready to say goodbye, but it turns out I’m not.”

Willa smiles through the haze of her own unshed tears. “I know.”

“I found a website where you can have someone’s ashes fired into a bead that you wear on a bracelet or a necklace,” Taylor says. “That way you can always carry them with you.”

Willa taps her fingers to her own chest. “She’s always going to be with us.”

“I know.” Taylor sniffles, wiping her face with the side of her hand. “I just thought—”