Coach Kaman was big on posture. At the beginning of each season, she’d tell the cheerleaders to pretend they were marionettes with strings running through their spines and out the tops of their heads to keep them up straight. “Strings, girls!” she’d shout, whenever they were slouching. Finley pulls her imaginary string and sits taller to keep from slumping back against the pillows. Once upon a time, she could make a running roundoff into a back tuck look effortless. Now the simple act of living is exhausting.

“Since I can’t be there, I’ve created a list of clues to points of interest along the route. I’m sure most of them will be super easy, but others . . . okay, so . . . I’m never gonna know if you don’t follow the clues. Or even what you might discover if you do,” she says. “But if you decide to play along, the list and some other stuff you’ll need for the trip will be waiting for you on the boat.”

Tacked to the wall beside her bed is a photo that Taylor snapped with her instant camera just a few days ago, the day Finley’s friends promised they’d take the trip without her. Finley had been wearing her Coraline wig that night too. In a show of solidarity, Willa wore a gray plastic Viking helmet with horns and yellow yarn braids, while Taylor’s hair was stuffed up into a giant rainbow-colored puff like you see sports fans wearing in crowds at football games on TV. The colors have the same washed-out quality as the pictures in her grandma’s old photo albums, as though their friendship has already stood the test of time. Finley smiles at the photo and turns back to the laptop to continue the video. By the time Taylor and Willa see it, she will be past tense.

“You know . . . the dying part doesn’t scare me anymore.” The first time Finley faced death, she was four years old and the oncologist told her parents she had six months to live. She’s not unaware of how fortunate it is that she’s had thirteen years instead, and she’s tried to live them as fully and fearlessly as possible. “But I don’t want to leave everyone I love behind. I just . . . I don’t want you to forget about me.”

She presses pause with one hand as she scrubs away a tear with the other. She can edit the video later, but now she needs a break. She curls into a fetal position and sobs, wishing she could start her life over again, this time without leukemia.