Dora slid her elbows onto the bar and swirled the wine in her glass as she listened to Devlin tell a colorful story of how he and his buddies had bagged a marlin. She noticed the pleasant cadence of his speech, the way his Southern accent, heavier than Cal’s, drawled out vowels, and the mirth in his blue eyes as he chuckled.

Devlin was the same amiable person she’d remembered, and yet so very different from the boy she’d dated so many years ago. He’d gained a confidence that replaced his cockiness, an assuredness that came from success. As she watched his animated face, it occurred to her that she wasn’t enjoying the story as much as the music of his voice.

In a moment of sudden clarity, she understood that was how it was for Nate, too. At bedtime he liked her to tell him stories until he fell asleep. When he had a meltdown, she knew what she said didn’t matter as much as how she said the words to calm him.

She listened to Devlin and sipped her wine, enjoying the simple pleasure of being out and having the attention of a man again. She no longer felt awkward or nervous sitting at the bar. She wasn’t a woman alone. She was with Devlin—an old friend, a former lover. She was merely having a drink at a bar. Yet it wasn’t a date, either. She could stay or she could leave. There were no expectations. No pressure.

And that, she realized with amusement, was enough.

Three days later, Carson was on her way to the Florida Keys. Her hands clenched the wheel of the Blue Bomber as she stared at the highway, counting the miles. She was overtired, over-caffeinated, and at her wit’s end. Florida was one long state—it went on forever!

The sun was beginning to set by the time she got off the mainland to the first of the islands of the Keys. She’d hoped to get to the motel before dark. The planned twelve-hour trip was taking fourteen because of all the stops Nate had to make. She glanced in the rearview mirror, relieved to see the boy sitting quietly absorbed with his handheld video game. “Thank God,” she muttered.

The trip had been grueling. The front seat was littered with various brands of wipes she’d bought before Nate finally accepted one. Lord knew, the boy needed to keep his hands clean. Eating had been a nightmare. Dora and Lucille had specially prepared food that they packed in a cooler. Unfortunately, something was “wrong” with the sandwiches they’d made. Carson still wasn’t sure what. It was something about the way they were made or looked or how they smeared . . . Nate flatly rejected them. She’d resorted to trolling fast-food chains along the road, hoping he’d find something acceptable. The car smelled like a fast-food restaurant because she’d bought Nate hamburgers, fish burgers, submarine sandwiches, pancakes, until he finally agreed to eat chicken nuggets and French fries—as long as there was not a drop of catsup or sauce on them. She’d found that out the hard way.

If eating was tough for Nate, elimination was worse. As far as she could tell, Nate had the bladder of a pregnant woman. He had to stop to pee every two hours like clockwork. He was terrified of having an accident, and the minute he felt the urge he screamed for her to take the next exit.

“We’re on the Keys now,” she called in a cheery voice to Nate in the backseat after another shout for a bathroom stop. “Hold on. Shouldn’t be long now!”

“It’s six forty-seven,” Nate said. “We’ve been on this trip for twelve hours and thirty-two minutes. We should be there.”

Carson glanced in the rearview mirror to see Nate looking at his watch. She blew out a plume of air and wiped a strand of hair from her forehead. He was a good kid, she reminded herself. Dora had prepared her for his idiosyncrasies—how he didn’t show emotion in his voice or face. How he could develop an obsessive interest in something. How he could overreact to something seemingly inconsequential. But driving to Florida with Nate was like being in the car with a dictator. Meet his demands, or meet his wrath!

“Yes, we did plan to be there by now,” Carson said evenly, marshaling her frustration. “But we made so many stops it slowed us down. We’ve got at least another hour.”

“Oh.” A moment passed. “I can’t wait an hour. I have to go to the bathroom now.”

The motel was a 1950s-era stucco two-story painted lime green and billed as a “resort.” Carson had booked the room online, and as often was the case, the professional photos looked better than the actual location. Calling the small, scruffy, off-the-highway motel a resort was a long stretch, but it was close to the Dolphin Research Center and cheap and they had a room available. An undeniably attractive trifecta, in her budget-conscious mind.

It was dark by the time she parked in the gravel lot. After she checked in, she gathered their suitcases and led a wary Nate along the narrow, poorly lit pavement pathway to the rear of the motel, praying a snake or iguana or some rodent wouldn’t jump out from the shadows. The light over the cottage door was dim but she got the door open without trouble. Her hand felt along the wall for the light switch. In an instant, the room was revealed.

It was a small cottage, spartanly furnished with cheap, beachy white wicker furniture. And it was pink. Pink walls, pink fabric, pink bathroom tile, and splashes of pink in all the nautical prints on the wall. The space was divided into two sections by a half wall open to the front windows. The front area was narrow and long. To the left, a cluster of mini white appliances made up the in-room kitchenette. To the right was a lumpy-looking futon and an ancient TV atop a white wicker stand. The rear was a bedroom with a queen bed, a wicker bureau, a small wicker desk, and the bathroom.

Carson dropped her bags to the floor and walked around, surveying. She opened the fridge and checked for ice. There wasn’t any.

“Make yourself at home,” she told Nate. “This is where we’ll be living for the next five days.”

Nate stood by the door, ramrod straight and clutching his bag. “I don’t like it here.”

“It’s not a palace, but it’s clean.”

“It smells bad.”

“Yeah, it does,” she said. The scent of mildew was prevalent. “We’ll open the windows, okay? Get some of that nice ocean breeze in here.”

“It’s dirty.”

She followed his gaze to the corner where the linoleum was chipped and curling. “It’s not dirty, Nate. It’s just old.”

“I want to go home.” Nate’s face crumpled.