“Are we there yet?” Trex called from the back seat of the packed minivan.
She held a small wooden box on her lap. She’d sat that way since we got off the auto train and left Orlando. The box. Her father’s ashes.
“Almost,” I said.
I glanced in the rearview mirror.
Her eyes—her father’s eyes.
Sandy, the apricot labradoodle, sat next to her.
“Florida sure is flat,” Trex said. “Aren’t you tired, Mummy?”
“Yes, precious. Mummy is very tired,” I said. “I don’t sleep well on trains.”
“I know,” she said. “I slept really well.”
“Then how do you know I didn’t sleep?”
“I just know,” she said. “Now how many Dinosaur Trains?”
Dinosaur Train, a favored TV show. I looked at the GPS for the arrival time at our new home.
“We’ll be there in less than one,” I said.
At the edges of my vision was Saint Francis, the scruffy old Pomeranian, sitting in the far corner of the back seat. He met my eyes in the rearview—his look knowing, with a touch of anticipation.
