The idea—one she hadn’t consciously considered before that minute—seemed as perfectly suited for her work as the travel itself. She hadn’t had as much feedback about anything she’d written as she had the ten tips article, in which she’d shared her own stories—of the mistakes, foibles and embarrassments she’d experienced on the road. She’d exposed her life to make the points more salient, and something in the article had resonated with readers.

She wrote back quickly.

Dear Ms. Fisher,

Thank you so much for the kind words. Your idea is intriguing! The stories behind the stories. Let’s talk soon.

Colleen typed in her phone number and hit send.

She smiled as she closed her computer. She had other things to think about today. She and Hallie were taking Dad for the scan; hope simmered alongside dread. Colleen rose from bed, showered and dressed in quick order, a little spring in her step from the “superb writing” compliment.

“Dad!” Colleen called as she entered the kitchen. Morning light slipped into the room through the slats of the wooden blinds, casting yellow stripes onto the hardwood floor. Across the room Colleen spied the red-hot eye of the stove burner. “Dad?” she called again as she turned it off.

The house was empty; she could feel it. Where was he? Had she spent too long on her work? God, no. If something had happened to him because she’d focused on . . . She wouldn’t think about it.

The back screen door popped against the wooden frame as she exited to the backyard. At the end of the dock, Gavin’s silhouette was set against the blue morning sky. He squatted as he untied the johnboat from its moorings. It was a small boat with a center console and a bench seat, the once-bright green paint now faded to an almost mint-colored hue. When she and her siblings were small, all five in the family had fit neatly in the boat, but now only two or three at a time could sit comfortably. Colleen burst into a run, calling out, “Dad!”

He turned quickly, coming off balance and falling to the splintered decking. He landed on his left side and let out a grand stream of curses. Colleen stopped, as shocked as if he’d hit her. That couldn’t be her dad. She’d never heard him curse, not once. As a teenager, she’d thought he’d said “shit” one time but he’d laughed it off and denied it. “Cursing,” he’d said, “is lazy. It’s better to find the right word.”

She’d never been able to follow that example, believing that sometimes a curse word was the right word.

Colleen quickly reached his side and bent to him. “Are you okay?”

He glanced at his daughter with a blank stare and then maneuvered his body to sit and shake his head. “Silly me.”

“Does anything hurt?”