Willa waits for Taylor to tell them about the list of clues—she’s never had the feeling that Finley meant for the list to be a secret—but Taylor seems preoccupied with the steaming bowl of clam chowder in front of her.

“We, um—we’ve thought about going to the Rock Hall,” Willa offers, hoping Taylor will jump into the conversation. She has always been better at talking to Finley’s mom.

Near the end, whenever Willa and Taylor would stop by to visit Finley, Mrs. Donoghue would give them their privacy. She’d ask the hospice nurse to take a break so they could be normal teenage girls. At the end of every visit, Finley’s mom would hug them too long. Tears would glisten in her eyes as she said, “Thank you for being such good friends to Finley.”

Taylor let Mrs. Donoghue’s hugs go on as long as necessary, but Willa never knew how to buoy up Finley’s mom when Willa felt like she was the one who was drowning.

“That sounds like fun,” Taylor’s mom says, and the table falls into an awkward silence, punctuated only by the clinking of spoons against bowls. Finally, Taylor looks up at her mom.

“I can’t do this,” she says. “I want to go home.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Willa keeps her voice level, not wanting to cause a scene in public, but she’s one deep breath away from going off. “You’re bailing after ten hours?”

“I just—it’s too hard.”

“Hard is having to do all the work by yourself.” Willa removes the paper napkin from her lap and places it on the table beside what’s left of her soup. “How nice it must be to just give up, knowing everything will be fine for you. I wasted my college savings and quit my job.”

“You could come work at the stand,” Taylor says, throwing a glance at her mom, who offers an encouraging nod.

The Nicholsons own a huge farm in Perkins Township that’s been in their family for generations. Every summer people flock to their farm stand—which has grown over the years into a full-blown shop—for homegrown fruits and vegetables. Their tomatoes and sweet corn are legendary, and you’re not doing autumn properly if you don’t go to Nicholsons’ Farm for pumpkins, hayrides, and fresh-pressed cider.

“That’s not the point,” Willa says.

“Today was terrible and I hated it.”

Willa ignores Taylor and turns to Mrs. Donoghue. “Thank you for coming all this way to buy us dinner. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go call my mom.”