TAYLOR IS STILL ASLEEP WHEN Willa fires up the engine and unties the boat from its mooring. They hadn’t planned on leaving New York City this early, but she woke before dawn with anticipation fizzing in her chest. The ocean is so close that the yearning for the feel of salt air on her skin is almost more than Willa can bear. When the boat is clear of the mooring field, she turns it into the wind, shifts the engine to neutral, and climbs on deck to raise the mainsail.

Willa is sailing past the Statue of Liberty when Taylor emerges from the cabin, still wearing her pajamas. Her eyes bug out and she dives back through the companionway, returning with both of her cameras—and her cell phone. After Taylor snaps dozens of shots of the statue, she settles on the cockpit bench with her phone. Willa watches the way she smiles at the screen, wondering if Taylor is texting the girl from the concert. She looks happier than she has in a long time. Certainly since before Finley died.

New York Harbor reminds Willa of a huge-scale version of Sandusky Bay—more tankers, more ferries, more skyline—and as Whiskey Tango Foxtrot skims across the water, she is proud of how far they’ve come. She smiles to herself, thinking, I’ve got this.

Except when they sail beyond the mouth of the harbor into the Atlantic Ocean, everything changes. The protective arms of New York and New Jersey are gone. The ocean waves are higher and more rolling than anything she’s ever experienced. The boat pounds through the crests and valleys, and Willa is eleven years old again, afraid to sail a dinghy to Kelleys Island. But this time she doesn’t have Finley to reassure her that she can do it.

Taylor drops her phone and grabs for the bucket, retching into it. Down in the cabin, Pumpkin leaps into the sink.

“I’m so sorry,” Willa says. “I don’t know what to do to make this easier for you. I guess I could put a reef in the main to reduce the sail area. . . .” She stops because at this point she’s just spouting words. The truth is that Willa is afraid to climb on deck on an unpredictable sea. If she’s thrown into the ocean, Taylor wouldn’t know how to rescue her. Even worse, Willa is embarrassed by her fear. She’s supposed to be a sailor. “Maybe we should call your dad.”

Taylor hands over her phone and throws up as Willa hits the speed dial for Mr. Nicholson.

“We’ve just sailed into the Atlantic and it’s pounding out here,” she explains. “I thought maybe I could reef the main—”

“Turn on the engine and motor sail,” he interrupts. “It’ll keep the boat more stable through the waves.”

“That feels like cheating.”