Taylor would laugh if Willa didn’t sound like she wanted to bite someone. Taylor can’t imagine cutting herself off from her mom that way, but she can’t force Willa to call home. Instead, Taylor turns her attention back to the Internet. One of the comments is a question: “What made you decide to do take this trip?”

There isn’t enough room to answer the question in the profile, so Taylor creates a free blog. She makes a page for Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, uploading the before and after pictures of the boat. On the next page Taylor adds some bio information about herself and Willa—but nothing too personal—along with links to their individual Instagram accounts and e-mail addresses. And, finally, Taylor makes a page for Finley’s video. When she’s finished tweaking the design and colors, Taylor adds the link to their Instagram. Now she has an answer for the question.

“Hey,” Willa calls down. “It’s your turn to drive.”

“Be right there.” Taylor closes her laptop and stows away her photo equipment, except for the cameras. As she steps up into the cockpit, she uses her phone to take a shot of Willa, sitting under the beach umbrella with Pumpkin on her lap. Thirty seconds later, the photo is winging its way through cyberspace.

Taylor sits and takes over the tiller. “Can I ask you something?”

“Um . . .” Willa’s expression is guarded. “Okay.”

“Why did you throw your phone in the lake?”

Willa sighs. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Does your mom even know why you’re mad at her?”

Willa goes down into the cabin, and Taylor thinks the conversation is over until Willa comes back with a bottle of water and a cookie. She trims in the jib a little bit, then says, “So my mom’s been sort of seeing this guy—”

“Uncle Rico, right?”

“Wait. What?”

“That Steve guy,” Taylor says. “Finley called him Uncle Rico like in Napoleon Dynamite.”

“That’s what I called him when I was confiding in her. At least I thought I was confiding in her.” Willa shakes her head. “I can’t believe she told you.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“I asked her not to tell anyone.”

“You could have told me,” Taylor says.

“Could I, though?”