By the time they acquired a map, they were already seventeen states in. They’d never bothered to count before—not­ really, not officially—though they each had their own way of keeping track. ­Gemma had a leather pouch full of rocks, one from every place they’d been. Connor kept a journal, scribbling his observations as the country scrolled by unseen out the window. The twins, Roddy and Jude, collected snow globes. But there had never been any formal way of marking their progress, of ticking off states as they saw them.

That all changed when Jude discovered the map at a yard sale, propped up against a grim-faced old rocking horse. It was enormous, almost bigger than she was, with the world’s ugliest red frame and a tear that went from the Florida Panhandle all the way to Oklahoma. She didn’t care. She enlisted Roddy to carry it back with her, the two of them stopping every few feet along the gravel edge of the road to adjust their grip on the heavy frame.

At home, they burst into the kitchen, two proud fishermen hauling in their catch. Their dad was at work—was always at work—but Gemma and Connor were there, and they looked up from their homework to stare first at the threadbare map, then at the twins. For a moment, Jude worried she’d miscalculated. That it was a terrible idea. That nobody else would understand.

But of course they did. Connor hurried over to help them set it on the table; Gemma disappeared upstairs and returned a few minutes later with a box of colorful thumbtacks. They set to work, recalling stories, arguing over memories—that diner where Roddy spilled a milkshake, was that in Vermont or New Hampshire? was it last August or the one before that they saw that black bear in upstate New York?—and when they were done, they stood back to admire their handiwork. There was a smattering of pins along the East Coast, the rest arranged like a fist around Lake Michigan. Seventeen in all.

Proof of what they’d seen.

Proof that she’d been there too.