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“Are they clean?” Cringing at the thought of wearing someone else’s underwear, I hold the thick fabric away from my body.

Grandma scoffs. “Of course they’re clean. They’re brand new. A friend of a friend picked up a pair for me in Europe a while back as a gag gift. I never even tried them on.”

“So they’re . . . a joke?” I study the underwear, trying to figure out the punch line. They’re heavy, as if lined with steel cables. “Do they shock you when you put them on?”

Rolling her eyes, Grandma marches toward me and snatches the panties from my hand. “No, they don’t shock you. They’re a legitimate protection device. Look . . .” She flips them around, and with a few clicks of her fingers, demonstrates how to unlock the waistband. “It has a secret code built in so only the wearer can remove them. They’re knife proof, scissors proof . . . hell, they’re practically indestructible. You’d need wire cutters to get them off without the code. It’s printed on the tag, so don’t lose that. Trust me, your virtue will be safe in these.”

Grandma winks as if she knows my virtue was lost in the back of Damian’s mother’s Suburban after the homecoming game senior year.

With a shrug, I stuff them into my leather tote-slash-purse. “Thanks, Gra—”

“Cut the grandma shit, already, will ya?” She pins me with a glare.

“Yeah, sure.” I cringe, surrendering to her preferred moniker. “G-Lo.”

“Thank you.”

I snicker at her victorious smile.

“Laugh it up, sis.” Jeanie props herself on her crutches, tears clogging her throat as she hobbles toward the door. “Go ahead and wear your fancy superhero panties if that makes you feel safer, but when shit goes south, don’t come crying to me! It’s a big world out there, Zo. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

At the crack of dawn, with Jeanie and G-Lo trailing me like a pair of lost kittens, I load my overstuffed backpack, a lightweight blanket, and my favorite pillow into the back seat of G-Lo’s car and then toss my tote into the front with Mom’s ashes, her diary, and—thanks to Jeanie—enough food to feed an army.

Jeanie’s blue eyes lock on mine. “Are you sure?”

Am I? I don’t know anymore. The farthest I’ve driven alone was just across the state line, trailing a school bus filled with football players, in what may as well be a past life at this point.

“I’m positive.” I offer her a confident grin.

“If you insist on doing this, can we at least rent you a car from this century?”

“That’s not really in the budget.” I tug at the bottom of my frayed shorts, unraveling them a little more.

“Oh, please.” G-Lo rolls her eyes. “My car has been carting me around for damn near forty years. I think she can survive the next two weeks.”

Jeanie heaves out a heavy sigh. “Then drive carefully, for Christ’s sake. Stick to the highways—no back-road shortcuts. Don’t talk to strangers. And whatever you do, don’t eat gas station hot dogs or sketchy vending machine sandwiches.”

“Why the hell would I eat vending machine sandwiches?” My stomach gurgles at the thought.

“Just trust me. Don’t do it. Here . . .” She hands me her AAA card and a handwritten list. “I added you to my membership, just in case. And I jotted down all the best places to stay in each city. They’re in the nicer parts of town but they won’t break your budget—and since you’re not twenty-one yet, I weeded out the ones that have age restrictions.”

I open my mouth to ask how long that took her, but she shoves a wad of cash into my hand.

“And take this. It’s not much, but it should cover your gas for a while, even in that rolling fossil. Don’t spend it all on snacks, okay?”

“I won’t.” I stuff the cash into the front pocket of my shorts. The emotion in her eyes brings tears to mine, and I blink fast to keep them from falling. I almost tell her I changed my mind. That I don’t really want to do this all by myself. That we can wait until her leg heals, until she has vacation time, until the pain of losing Mom doesn’t fill my every thought and threaten to crack my chest in two. Instead, I whisper a quiet, “Thank you.”

She swipes a hand under her nose, covering a sniffle. “You’d better text me pics of everything you do.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m serious, Zo. I want pictures of every meal you eat, every bed you sleep in, every damn place you go. If I can’t be there, I want to feel like I am. Promise me.”

It finally hits me what she’s giving up by letting me go, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “I promise.”

“I’m glad I’m not going. Really. It’s too damn hot for a road trip. It’s supposed to be in the nineties all week. That’s some crazy global warming shit, right there. Better you than me.” She tears her gaze away, focusing on anything but my face. “Now, go, before I change my mind.”

“She’s right, you should probably get going.” G-Lo checks the time on her phone. “You’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”