Willa unfurls the jib and kills the motor on her first watch, and Whiskey Tango Foxtrot finds a six-knot groove, soaring down the Atlantic coast. The rush of the waves along the length of the boat is music. This has always been Willa’s favorite part of sailing, when wind and water come together like a song. Her heart aches that Finley is not here for this. She aches for everything Finley has missed and all that she’ll miss as Willa’s life goes on without her. Ever since Finley’s leukemia returned, ever since she died, Willa has kept a lock on her emotions. She wants to howl and rage, scream and cry, and she knows it’s not healthy to keep it bottled up. But she’s afraid if she lets her emotions out, she’ll never be able to put them back in the bottle again.

Taylor comes out on deck wearing her inflatable life vest and seasickness bands on each wrist—just in case. She salutes Willa. “Nicholson reporting for duty.”

Willa laughs. “Ms. Nicholson, you have the con.”

She crashes out in her bunk, and when she wakes, she’s confused because through the companionway she can see the sky behind Taylor—and it’s blue. Daytime blue. Willa climbs out on deck and looks around. Stretched along the Jersey shore are high-rise buildings, including one that’s mirrored to reflect the sky. “Where— Is that . . . Atlantic City?”

Taylor’s smile stretches wide as she nods. “Yep.”

“Wait. You sailed all night?”

“Well, Pumpkin and I motor-sailed all night.”

“Taylor! This is huge!” Willa jumps down into the cabin and grabs Taylor’s instant. She snaps a picture of Taylor holding both the tiller and her cat with Atlantic City over her shoulder.

“I’m adding this to your list of titles,” Willa says. “Sailor of the Darkened Seas.”

She didn’t know Taylor’s smile could get wider than it already is, but it does. Then Taylor says quietly, “I didn’t think I could be a sailor.”

“Well, let me be the first to tell you,” Willa says, as the instant photo blooms into focus. “You are.”

39.3643° N, 74.4229° W

Make your own luck.

Taylor

“DO YOU THINK FINLEY MEANT for us to gamble?” Taylor asks as she and Willa pedal their bikes down New Hampshire Avenue. There are no casinos yet, just rows of newer-looking town houses, churches, and corner shops. When Taylor thought about Atlantic City, she never considered garbage trucks or nail salons, never considered that there are people who actually live there.

“Maybe,” Willa says, as they ramp up onto the wooden boardwalk. It’s still early, so there aren’t many tourists out yet. Only power walkers, a couple of homeless men, and a handful of other people on bikes. “I mean ‘Make your own luck’ seems pretty obvious in a town full of casinos.”