Each time they leave a lock in their wake, Taylor feels a little thrill of victory, and the last time she called home, her dad said he was proud of her—and that Granddad joined Instagram just to see her pictures.

They pass small towns and farmlands. Ducks paddle on the river with lines of downy babies behind them. Flocks of swallows wheel in the sky, swooping low over the boat. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot skims under fixed bridges so low it seems certain they’ll bump their heads, and Taylor radios ahead for the lift bridges to open. Every now and then they’re overtaken by a faster boat or they’ll pass another heading in the opposite direction and they wave. Captain Norm said they might find themselves traveling with other boats heading in the same direction, but so far that hasn’t happened.

“This would be a beautiful trip in the fall when the leaves are changing color,” Taylor says, zooming in to snap a photo of a great blue heron standing on a half-submerged log, watching for fish.

Willa nods. “The cooler weather would be kind of nice too.”

As hard as they’ve tried to keep the boat neat, neither of them have really made their beds since Cleveland. Dirty clothes are starting to spill out of the laundry basket. And the toilet smells bad. Taylor can’t imagine having more gear on this small boat. Her heart feels tight when she thinks about how there’s no room for Finley. “That means more clothes to pack, though.”

Willa grimaces. “True.”

They’ve passed each other water bottles and sunscreen and handed off information as they changed shifts at the helm, but this is their first casual conversation of the day. Really, their first since the fight. As always, they both seem to be pretending like nothing happened. Like everything is fine. Taylor knows friendships don’t normally work this way, but she and Willa have never been normal friends.

On Willa’s watch, Taylor goes below to update the website. She uploads a shot of Willa laughing as she plays beer pong. A group of frat boys doing Jell-O shots. Vanessa sitting on the railing at the park, singing along to Shiri Gray. It strikes Taylor that from the outside it appears they’re having an amazing adventure. No one can tell they’re struggling to keep the peace. No one sees the tears.

The engine goes silent, and Willa calls softly, “Taylor, bring your camera.”

She climbs out on deck, and Willa points to the near shore, where a young deer stands motionless, except for the twitch of its tail as it watches at the boat. Taylor snaps several shots, including a profile portrait of Willa looking back at the deer. The tension in her face has relaxed and her smile is soft. They slowly, silently drift until something spooks the animal and it bounds off into the woods.