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and gazed around the RV. When Landry’s computer made some beeps I glanced at it and it took me a minute to realize he had Skype open. “What are you doing?”
    He grinned, eyes on the screen as he tapped away. “Wanna see Mom and Dad?” And then there they were on the screen, elbowing each other out of the way as they squinted at their computer. “Oh look, Carl, there they are. Would you look at that. Hi, boys!” Landry’s mom smiled and I was transported back in time, to high school, studying in Landry’s basement, eating pot roast and garlic mashed potatoes and apple pie.
    My mom worked late and we weren’t close anyway, so I spent many dinners at Landry’s house, eating with him and his parents and grudgingly driving home way past curfew.
    “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”
    “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs.”
    Landry’s parents were older than mine and had adopted Landry in their late thirties after they were unable to conceive. Mr. Jacobs’s hair was grayer than I remembered, Mrs. Jacob’s laugh lines more pronounced. But they were still the same couple who’d saved my sanity many times over the years.
    Landry turned to me. “They asked to Skype after our first destination.”
    I nodded at him and turned to his parents. “Thanks, it’s good to see you two. Did you like graduation? Sorry we took off—”
    Mrs. Jacobs waved her hand and talked over me. “No, no, we understood you have a timetable and wanted to get going. Thanks for spending the evening with us beforehand.”
    They’d treated us to a big dinner, and then Landry and I had gone to a baseball party and drank until we passed out. How I didn’t feel sick at graduation was a mystery.
    “So, how are you doing, son?” Mr. Jacobs directed the question at me.
    When he first called me “son” in high school, I’d bristled. I wasn’t his son. But the more I got to know them, the more I realized their inability to have their own biological children just made them want to take care of every single child they could, influence lives in a way that mattered. So now, when Mr. Jacobs called me “son,” it made me want to lay on his couch and snuggle into the homemade afghan hanging on the back while I watched an old movie.
    “I’m good. Mount St. Helens was beautiful.”
    “Everything go okay?” The concern in his voice wrapped around my shoulders like a wool scarf.
    My gaze rested on the camera bag I’d placed on the table. I loved knowing that by the end of this trip, that little black machine made of plastic and glass and mirrors would hold a summer of memories.
    I rubbed my palms together and focused on Mr. Jacobs. “Yeah, we got some great shots, I think, and spread his ashes and it was . . . hard . . . but at the same time I feel really good about what we’re doing.”
    And I did. Our first stop solidified that in my mind and my heart.
    Mr. Jacobs nodded once and Mrs. Jacobs threaded her fingers through her husband’s, beaming a warm smile at me.
    They chatted with their son. He carried the laptop around, showing them Sally and talked about our upcoming trip to the amusement park. They laughed at his rambling and wished us luck.
    After he hung up with them, I turned to him. “Thanks. It was great to talk to them.”
    He smiled. “I thought that would make you happy.”
    He knew me so well.
    ***
    After feeding Sally with some fuel, we continued north, skirting Seattle, then veered east into the northern tip of Idaho. Using my dad’s camera—which I’d shown him how to use—Landry took shots of the passing landscape, which would probably wind up blurry. He snapped the camera in my direction so I made weird faces until he grew bored of that and amused himself by taking selfies with his iPhone.
    He downloaded the pictures from the camera onto his computer, showing me the ones he thought looked best. Mindful to keep my eyes on the road, I pointed out my favorites and suggested some light cropping and editing, which Landry completed.
    Later, he