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strike water the hot water added to grain to begin the mashing process

THE CORK bulletin board stretched across the weathered picnic table like an empty canvas.

I'd bought it at a hardware store along with a laminated map of Kentucky, colored push pins, and a pack of fine-tip markers.

The afternoon sun beat down on my shoulders as I carefully positioned the map, smoothing out air bubbles with the side of my hand.

"What are all those little circles?" Poppy asked, perched on the bench beside me with her elbows propped on the table. She'd appeared the moment I'd started spreading materials around, drawn by curiosity like a moth to flame.

"Distilleries. Each dot represents a place where they make bourbon." I pushed a red pin into the map at Woodford Reserve's location, the metal point sliding through the laminate with a satisfying pop.

"There are so many!" She counted silently, her finger tracing across the map. "Like, way more than we visit on tours."

"Exactly. That's why I'm making this." I switched to a blue pin for Wild Turkey, then green for Four Roses. "Different colors for different types of operations—big commercial distilleries, craft operations, historic sites."

The rhythmic crunch of gravel announced someone approaching. Teddy Reeves walked past carrying a metal rake over his shoulder like a rifle, his sandy hair damp with perspiration. He'd changed from his usual camouflage into khaki shorts and a faded t-shirt.

"Afternoon, ladies," he called out, slowing his pace. "That looks like serious business."

"Hi, Teddy," I replied.

"Are you going to hunt for ginseng?" Poppy asked with her characteristic bluntness.

"Too early in the season for that. Won't be ready until fall." He shifted the rake to his other shoulder. "Today I'm scouting for arrowheads. Creek beds are perfect after yesterday's rain—washes away the sediment."

"Find anything good lately?" I asked, more to fill the silence than from genuine interest.

"Few pottery shards, nothing special. Maybe I'll get lucky today." He waved and continued toward the wooded trail.

"He's kind of weird," Poppy observed with her usual candor.

"A little." I turned back to the map, pushing yellow pins into locations I'd researched but never visited—New Riff, Rabbit Hole, Copper & Kings.

"So you're going to visit all of these places?"

"That's the plan. Learn everything I can about their operations, who works there, how long they've been in business."

Poppy studied the growing constellation of colored pins. "Are you going to be a tour guide forever?"

The question caught me off guard. "Probably not."

"What do you want to do?"

I paused with a purple pin halfway to the map. What did I want to do? The question felt foreign, like someone asking me to translate a language I'd never learned. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Her voice pitched higher with disbelief. "But you're a grown-up. Grown-ups always know what they want to do."

I laughed, though it came out hollow. "Not this grown-up. I spent so long taking care of my mom that I never really thought about what came after."

Even before the cancer diagnosis, my mother had needed me—to navigate rental agreements, to handle phone calls with utility companies, to be the steady presence when her own anxiety overwhelmed her.

Now, at twenty-seven, the truth was starker than I wanted to admit, even to myself.

Finding my father wasn't just a quest for answers—it was the only plan I had.

Beyond locating him, beyond whatever reunion or confrontation awaited, my life stretched ahead like an unmarked map.

No pins, no destinations, no clear path forward.