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No. Not happening. I glance out the passenger window and unravel the hem of my shorts a little farther. My bladder will have to wait until we get back to Hicksville.

Dash pries my fingers from my shorts. “How long were those when you left home?”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

We exit the highway, and Dash parks in the Mud Island garage, just a short walk in either direction from our planned destinations. We step out of the car and straight into the drum of a clothes dryer. But instead of smelling of damp laundry, the sticky wall of heat envelops us in the loamy stench of mud and fish from the nearby river.

I gather my long hair into a loose ponytail to get it off my neck. “Why is it so humid here?”

“Welcome to Memphis.” Dash chuckles, sweat already running from his temple to his jaw. “Come on.” He clasps my hand. “Adventure awaits.”

The city is a flurry of activity. The aroma of sizzling meat and spices emanating from the small army of food trucks parked on every corner fills the air. The rattle of vintage streetcars rises over the din of voices as assorted tourists and businesspeople pack the sidewalks, every one of them on a mission of their own.

We make our way through the throng to the Cannon Center for Performing Arts, but it’s the giant metallic spaceship parked out front that captures my attention. Resembling a swirling tornado of liquid mercury, the columns and funnels of the mirrored sculpture draw my eyes and reflect my conflicting emotions.

“Incredible.” Dash gazes up at the shimmering work of art.

Despite the impressive sight in front of me, I direct my attention to the ground at my feet. Did my mother stand in this same spot three decades ago? My eyes sting as I crouch and place my hand on a four-by-four concrete square as if the sidewalk holds the secret of my entire existence. This isn’t even the same auditorium and yet . . . I didn’t expect to feel her presence here, but I do.

Dash squats beside me. “You want me to take your picture?”

I wordlessly hand him my iPhone, and he snaps several photos before joining me on the sidewalk. Ignoring the noise and the crush of people fanning out around us, we sit shoulder to shoulder on the pavement and stare up at the giant silver structure.

“Seems fitting,” he says after a few minutes.

“Fitting?”

“Definitely.” He nods. “Since, in some weird twist of fate, you were sent here by a Starman.”

11

Under Pressure

A hot gust ruffles my hair as the last particles of ash drift through the sky and float down the Mississippi River. Two down, only seven more to go. I peek at Dash over my shoulder. Unfortunately, I’ll be on my own for those.

Unlike Damian’s constant nagging from almost a thousand miles away, Dash relaxes on a bench, never once complaining while I choke back tears and say goodbye to Mom. All things considered, I couldn’t have asked for a better travel companion. But I know I can’t keep him forever. And maybe that’s for the best. It would be too easy to get attached . . . too hard to say goodbye.

I wipe my dusty fingers through the tall grass, then make my way to the bench.

Dash smiles as I sit beside him. “All done?”

I nod, focusing my attention on my gritty fingers. “I have sand under my fingernails.” As the words tumble out, I realize it isn’t sand at all. It’s Mom.

Dash bumps me with his shoulder. “At least you didn’t snort any this time.”

With his sweat-soaked hair pushed away from his face and his glasses tucked into his front pocket, he looks like Superman. All he’s missing is the suit.

I glance at his glasses. “Don’t you need those to see?”

He pulls them from his pocket and slides them on. They instantly fog.

“Can’t see much with them on.” He slips them into his pocket again. “But without them, everything kinda looks like an impressionist painting. I’m pretending I’m at the museum.” His lips twitch as he turns toward me. “You ready?”

“Yup.” My good humor vaporizes like water in a hot pan. “I guess you can take me back to Hicksville.”

“That’s it?” He wipes a drop of sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand. “No sightseeing? You came all this way to spread some ashes and leave?”

Unable to meet his gaze, I shrug. If I look at him, I’ll cry. I’d give anything to spend the day visiting all the places Mom went, but every minute I spend with Dash makes it harder to say goodbye. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me. I’ve known him for less than a day. Maybe it’s the emotional roller coaster I’ve been riding since discovering the existence of Mom’s diary, or maybe it’s the stark contrast between Dash and Damian, but if I don’t break free of Dash’s orbit soon, I won’t have to worry about getting attached, because it’ll be too damn late.