It was different with Willa. First, because Finley wasn’t always kind to her. Finley suffers private shame whenever she remembers how all the girls in their grade—including her—used to shun Willa because her school uniform was too big and she only ate peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. They’d squeeze together at the opposite end of the lunch table as though poverty were contagious. Now Finley knows that Willa is resourceful and brave and funny and so fucking smart—and Finley considers it a privilege to be her friend.

It’s physically painful to know that their lives will go on without her. That Finley’s best friends will make new best friends and these people will be the ones to celebrate the good news and commiserate the bad. They’ll be college roommates, wedding attendants, godparents. They’ll know things about Willa and Taylor that Finley will never know.

Her tears take a long time to subside and a bit longer after that before her eyes aren’t quite so puffy. She unfolds and sits back upright to repair her makeup and finish the video. Her nose is a little pink, but maybe they won’t notice.

“Even though I won’t be with you, I hope you have an epic adventure. But more than that, I hope it will be the kind of trip that changes your lives. So, if you’re ready to begin . . .” Finley leans close and gives her friends one last dimpled smile. “Start here.”

41.4489° N, 82.7080° W

Start here.

Willa

SUNRISE IS LITTLE MORE THAN a suggestion, a pale golden smudge on the horizon, when Willa pushes her keycard into the slot outside the sailing club. The gate rolls back slowly and the car muffler splutters as her mom steps on the gas. Tires. Brakes. Muffler. The list keeps getting longer and longer. Willa supposes she should be grateful they even own a car, but soon the costs will outweigh the value and she doesn’t know what they’ll do then.

The clubhouse is dark and the parking lot deserted, except for Cam’s chalky green pickup parked out on Springer’s Wharf, and at the sight of it she feels a flutter of . . . something she has no business feeling.

“You know you can come home whenever you want,” her mom says as she shifts the car into park at the head of B-dock. “Finley wouldn’t hold you to this.”

Willa was eleven years old when Finley decided the two of them should sail to Kelleys in Optimist dinghies. They provisioned themselves with sunscreen, bottled water, PB&J sandwiches, and a pair of walkie-talkies, then set out across Sandusky Bay. Everything was fine until they reached the mouth of the bay. The weather was clear—and Finley’s dad was on standby in case they needed to be rescued—but the distance and the choppiness of the waves were scary, especially in an eight-foot boat.