Two days later, I dropped Jason off at the regional airport in Monterey. He grabbed his canvas duffel, gave me one last firm handshake and a clap on the shoulder, and walked through the terminal doors without looking back—not because he didn’t care, but because he was finally moving forward.
I drove the old motor home back up to the coastal highway, pulled off at a quiet turnout overlooking Monterey Bay, and brewed a fresh cup of coffee using Emily’s old percolator.
I opened her leather journal to the very last blank page at the back. I pulled a fountain pen from my pocket—the same one she had given me on my retirement day—and wrote a few lines of my own:
October 28, 2026. Made it to the Pacific. The engine is running strong, the coffee is hot, and the boy is going to be just fine.
I closed the cover, placed the journal back into its secret steel compartment beneath the dining booth floor, and locked it securely. Then I settled back into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and listened to that old engine catch on the first try.
The road ahead was long, winding, and completely unwritten. And for the first time in eight years, I was ready for every single mile.
