“The only thing I care about today is getting this boat through that canal without sinking,” Willa says. “So if you want a fight, it’s going to have to wait until we get to the other end.”

“I’m going to get coffee.” Taylor steps off the boat.

“Don’t take too long.”

She flings her arm back and flips her middle finger at Willa, but this time no one laughs.

Taylor wishes they could stay longer in Port Colborne. Yesterday, they rode their bikes along the canal—past art galleries, clothing boutiques, and antique stores—and stopped at a British bakery to buy warm, fresh cinnamon scones with real butter for breakfast before pedaling over the Welland Street lift bridge to the beach. Taylor took pictures of everything, from the charming buildings to the tumbledown sandcastle on the beach that reminded her of the castles she used to make with Finley.

The one thing that bothers Taylor about yesterday is how little she and Willa had to say to each other. Finley was the talkative one. She’d have insisted on going into all the clothing shops to browse. She’d have struck up a conversation with the lady at the bakery. And she would have lost her mind over the fluffy little service-dog-in-training they met while waiting for a cargo ship to pass under the lift bridge. Finley provided the narration for their friendship, and Taylor misses her near-constant stream of chatter, along with Finley’s endless sense of wonder. If she were here, she’d be excited about going through the locks, and maybe Taylor would feel excited too. Instead, she’s stuck with serious, intense, bossy Willa.

Now, in the marina store, Taylor fills a couple of to-go cups with coffee, adding cream and sugar to her own. Willa prefers black.

“Like her soul,” Taylor mutters on her way to the cash register.

She passes a display of boat fenders that are fat and shiny. Their old fenders came from her dad’s collection of cast-off boat supplies, and Taylor isn’t sure they’ll survive the canal. A red sale tag above the display advertises a four-pack for ninety dollars. They’re smaller than their current fenders and ninety bucks is not cheap, but it’s one less thing to worry about. Balancing the coffee carrier with one hand, Taylor grabs the mesh bag and carries it to the register.

Willa is eating a bagel with cream cheese when Taylor gets back to the boat. Her eyebrows lift when she notices the bag of fenders. Taylor shrugs, handing her the cup of black-like-her-soul coffee. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to the boat.”