They stopped in Ashtabula and Erie only long enough to eat, sleep, and shower. Willa didn’t call Edison, but she kept his card—just in case. So far, the trip hasn’t been much fun, but the next destination on Finley’s list is Niagara Falls, and Willa is excited to cross into another country. She traveled with the junior sailing team to various regattas around Ohio, but the closest she’s ever come to a real vacation is the long Memorial Day weekend she and her mom spent in Amish Country. They ate dinner at an all-you-can-eat buffet and slept just outside Millersburg in a no-star motel, where the icy air conditioner rattled at full blast all night. Even the narrow bunk of a thirty-year-old sailboat is an improvement over that bumpy bed.

Willa keeps her eye on the handheld GPS they borrowed from Taylor’s dad as they approach the invisible boundary line between the United States and Canada.

“We’re coming up on the border,” she calls to Taylor, who is sprawled out on her bunk, reading. “We should do something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Willa says. She researched the shellback ceremony that navy sailors perform when they cross the equator, but this boundary isn’t as significant—and they don’t have anyone to play King Neptune anyway. “I’ve just never been outside of the United States, and I want to commemorate it.”

No sound comes from the cabin as Taylor considers. Then, “I have an idea.”

Willa can hear her rustling around, but she doesn’t know what’s happening until Taylor comes up from below with two handmade signs, one that says I’M IN CANADA and another that says I’M IN THE UNITED STATES. She colored the letters to look like flags. “You can stop the boat halfway across the line and we’ll take a picture holding the signs.”

“There’s not an actual line. You know that, right?”

Taylor rolls her eyes. “Just get us in the ballpark.”

Willa’s anticipation ratchets up as she watches their progress on the GPS. About fifteen minutes later, she shifts the tiller, nosing the boat into the wind to bring their forward momentum to a stop. The sails flap as she and Taylor situate themselves—and Taylor’s camera—on the front of the boat. Willa holds the Canada sign while Taylor holds the US sign, her thumb resting on the remote button for her camera. Pumpkin sits in the hollow between them.

“Ready?” Taylor asks.

Willa tucks a flyway curl behind her ear, feeling like Samwise Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings, preparing to take the step that will put her the farthest away from home she’s ever been. She takes a deep breath and nods. “I’m ready.”

“Finley on three,” Taylor says. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

Her name shapes their mouths into smiles as Taylor snaps the picture.