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business really started to pick up. I was glad to have learned all that I had from him and wouldn’t take back the hours I put in for anything. Still, I was almost jealous of everyone else in my family. They all had their own “thing.” I wondered if I would ever find mine.
    Under Mom’s eye, I swallowed the rest of my juice and took the last bite of my breakfast bar. I made puppy dog eyes at her, and she went, shaking her head, to the coffeepot and poured the remainder of it into a stainless steel travel mug. The mug was the one and only thing I insisted had to be safely packed and not left behind during any of our moves.
    There wasn’t anything special about it, but
it
was special to me. The mug was covered in My Little Pony stickers and “BRIE” was spelled out with alphabet letters on a slant. I’d been almost six when Kate—fourteen—had presented me with the stickers. One day, I put them all over her coffee mug, and instead of being mad, Kate rinsed out the coffee and washed the mug. She filled it with apple juice and gave it to me. The stickers were faded—some gone from one too many times in the dishwasher. The steel had dulled and had a million scratches everywhere. I even had to take off the top and sip from the mug because the seal had worn away years ago. I’d ended up with coffee down my shirt or on my jeans too many times before I’d given up fighting with the lid.
    â€œCoffee for the road,” she said.
    I nodded, gratefully taking the mug. “Thanks, Mom.”
    I turned to Dad. “Is there going to be enough coffee for us and the guys at the site? Do you have extra in your trailer in case we run out?”
    â€œOh, my gosh,” Mom said, faking a horrified look with her mouth open and a hand on her heart. “How ever would you go on if you couldn’t have afternoon coffee?”
    â€œI wouldn’t,” I said through my smile. “I’d be asleep, drooling on Dad’s couch.”
    The words took me back to the last time I’d been in the trailer. It was almost like a second home to me.
    At thirteen, after spending an entire summer working in Dad’s cold and boring trailer, I’d
begged
him to remodel it to at least make it more of a comfy work space. For years, Dad had a stuffy, formal office setup inside. Uncomfortable wooden chairs had come well before the couch. Harsh fluorescent lights beamed down on us, giving our skin a greenish look.
    I didn’t need to walk the new job site to envision the setup. No matter what, Dad always had a silver trailer at the far back left of the lot—a weird superstition—and the rest of the crew shared RVs on the lot. I’d known Dad’s work guys since I could walk. His crew of ten had been with Dad from the beginning.
    â€œIs everyone here?” I asked. “Did you tell them about yesterday?”
    He nodded, not needing any more explanation to know what I meant. He reached for the sugar bowl. “Brody and the rest of the guys got in last night. They’re already at the site doing a preliminary check before we start.”
    â€œThe guys are there right now?” Mom asked, leaning against the countertop.
    Dad nodded. “No one else is there, hon. The village idiots were smart enough not to bang on the trailer doors of a bunch of guys who would make it hard for them to knock on another door for a
long
time. Don’t be nervous.”
    â€œWell, I am anxious,” Mom said.
    â€œHey,” Dad said. He walked over to Mom and hugged her. He took her hand and led her into the foyer.
    â€œMichael, I don’t want . . . my daughter is . . .” Mom’s voice was too low for me to hear every word.
    When Mom and Dad finally came back into the room, she didn’t look happy.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I asked.
    Dad opened his mouth, then hesitated. “Your mom and I are concerned about what we might be walking into at the