He took a deep breath, pulled a paper scroll from the tube, and unrolled it flat on the bench.

It was a photo of a box, an enormous, bright orange box sitting on some grass with two matching lawn chairs beside it. Judging from the chairs, the box was about the size of the Airstream. “What is it?”

“Guess?” Dad waggled his eyebrows.

“Do I have to?”

“Come on. It’s more fun this way.”

“I guess it sort of reminds me of those things on boats they use to ship stuff.”

“Ding! Ding! Ding!” Dad was in full-on game show host mode. “Exactly! Shipping containers. Okay, hold that thought.” He rolled up the photograph, unrolled another scroll, and held it flat. “Now, what do you see?”

Jeez, how many rounds of this game were there? “A room? A bed. A chair. A desk.”

“Yes? All in the”—he held up the first scroll—“shipping container.”

“Still not getting it. Why are people hanging out in shipping containers?” This had sycamore syrup all over it. Where was Jeanine when I needed her?

“Because it’s cool and cheap and environmentally friendly!” Huge smile.

“And orange.”

“You can get them in any color.” Even bigger smile.

“And claustrophobic.”

“You can put in as many windows as you want. You can even make one whole wall glass.”

“You want us to live in a shipping container?”

“No. It’s Petersville’s first inn!” He opened a third scroll, a map of town. “See, these…” He tapped four rectangles labeled A, B, C, and D in the field beside The Station House parking lot. “…are cottages.”

Whatever this was, Dad must have been working on it for months.

“So here’s what I was thinking. No matter how incredible we make the Petersville experience, no matter how much publicity we get, Petersville is too far for most people to travel to just for the day. If we want visitors, we need to provide a place to stay.” He jabbed at the rectangles. “And a place to eat.” He pointed to The Station House.

“You’re opening a motel where people stay in shipping containers?”

“It’s not a motel. It’s an inn. But, yes, I am! Remember Barton?”

“Who?”

“My friend from college?”

I didn’t, but I nodded anyway because I didn’t see how it mattered either way except that if I said that I didn’t, I’d have to listen to some story about who Barton was and the good old college days.

“Well, Barton is starting this company that refurbishes shipping containers, and he’s going to give the first four to us at a huge discount because he needs to drum up business. They’ll come and take lots of photos to put on his website!”

“How long have you been planning this?”

“I don’t know. I guess I first got the idea the night of the meeting.”

“And you’ve been keeping this secret all this time?” It didn’t make any sense. This was actually a good idea, and way more useful than the paper. Why did he wait so long to tell anybody about it?