The pictures make me grin even though I’ve seen them thousands of times before. I want to take them with me on the trip, but would rather not risk damaging them or Ruth seeing them. They might spoil my surprise.

The fourth and last picture is from the very end of that trip. It’s of both of us, each with a moving box in our arms, standing in front of our new house for the first time. In the photo, the sunset makes the walls and windows glow. I wonder if Ruth would see what I see when I look at these pictures. Would she remember what she was thinking? Would she recognize the same story as me, or would it be different? Would she see happy leaps into the air and golden, glistening walls?

Mom’s voice calls from downstairs. “Olivia!”

Mom, Dad, and Ruth are already seated at the kitchen table when I come down. Ruth is in her big black hoodie. She wears hoodies even on hot summer days, and in Tennessee that is something. Usually she goes for black or dark blue, her favorite colors since forever. The colors of the deepest ocean, she says.

“How’s packing?” Mom asks. She’s got ridged worry lines at the corners of her eyes, but the most elegant smile and cheekbones. Her eyes are clear and smart, like she notices and understands everything, which fits with her job as a college professor.

“Basically done,” I say. Ruth leans back in her chair, quiet, and lets my answer stand for both of us.

“Ellie and Eddie are going to be here at eight forty-five so you can load your stuff and be on the road by nine, okay?”

“Awesome!” I say.

Eddie is my mom’s cousin. Her favorite cousin, who she’s been close with basically her whole life, so he and Ellie have been more like an uncle and aunt to us. When they mentioned that they were renting an RV and taking a cross-country trip, my parents agreed to let Ruth and me go along. My parents both have to work this week, but they’ll meet us at the end of the road in California.

Ruth stays quiet. She’s not allowed to bring her iPod to the table, but I swear most of the time it’s like she’s got music coming through invisible earbuds anyway. And yes, Ruth still uses an iPod. A big, old 80-gig one because she says it fits all her music, the battery lasts longer, and she never has to worry about losing service or taking up space on her phone.

Her iPod—her music—used to be part of our favorite game. Ruth came up with it when we were little, and the game grew and grew until it became what we called Treasure Hunt. Ruth would pick a word—purple, heavy, flying, imaginary. Then we would play as our favorite pirates. She would be Anne Bonny, I’d be Mary Read, and off we’d go to collect our treasure: purple treasure, or heavy treasure, or flying treasure, or imaginary treasure. I’d go off with my camera (the small point-and-shoot one I had back then), Ruth with her notebook and iPod. When we got back together, Ruth would have a music playlist written down and ready to go, filled with songs inspired by the specific treasure. Me? I’d have photographs. Then we’d listen to her playlist and I’d show her all my treasure photos. We did the purple Treasure Hunt at Mom’s old university in California, and when we were back home, we listened to “Purple Rain” by Prince and I showed Ruth pictures of a jacaranda tree with purple flowers, their petals flittering to the ground.