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wheat used as a secondary grain to add softness and sweetness to the mash

THE LAUNDRY facility at Happy Trails smelled like a combination of fabric softener and pine disinfectant, with underlying notes of someone's forgotten tuna sandwich.

I dumped my accumulated dirty clothes into the ancient washing machine and fed it quarters from the stash I kept in an old peanut butter jar.

A man emerged from behind one of the dryers, arms full of dark-colored clothing. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with sandy hair that stuck up in places and an easy smile that transformed his ordinary features into something almost handsome.

"Afternoon," he said, nodding as he passed. "You must be new. I'm Teddy Reeves, site fourteen."

"Bernadette Waters. Site nine."

"Welcome to the neighborhood." He gestured toward his pile of laundry. "Fair warning—the spin cycle on that washer sounds like a helicopter landing, but it gets the job done."

"Thanks for the heads up."

He lingered by the folding table, sorting through what appeared to be an unusual amount of outdoor gear. "You staying long?"

"Through December, probably. You?"

"Same, maybe longer. Depends on how the hunting season goes." He held up a mud-stained shirt. "Not deer hunting—arrowheads and ginseng. This area's prime territory if you know where to look."

I'd never met anyone who hunted for arrowheads. "Is that... profitable?"

"Ginseng can be, if you find the right patches. Arrowheads are more of a passion project." His eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Found a Paleo point last week that's probably eight thousand years old. Makes you think about all the people who walked these hills before us, you know?"

There was something endearing about his excitement over ancient artifacts. "That's really cool."

"If you're ever interested in tagging along, I could show you what to look for. Most people walk right over amazing stuff without realizing it."

He seemed harmless enough. "I might take you up on that."

Teddy smiled wider. "Great. I usually head out around dawn, back by noon. See you around, Bernadette." He left with a wave.

I mused that when it came right down to it, we were all looking for something.

After folding a load of clothes, I walked back to my van then decided it could use a wash, too. As I gathered a bucket, some rags, and the bottle of all-purpose cleaner I'd picked up at the camp store, Poppy materialized.

"Whatcha doing?"

"I'm going to wash Ginger."

"Can I help?"

"It's going to take a while. I'm washing it inside and out."

She grinned. "I'm a good cleaner."

For the next hour, we scrubbed away road grime and the sticky residue of countless bug encounters.

Poppy proved surprisingly helpful, tackling the lower sections I couldn't reach while lying on her stomach.

She kept up a steady stream of commentary about everything we discovered—a fossilized french fry under the passenger seat, a mysterious stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like Texas, and my collection of gas station coffee cups.

"You really live in here?" she asked, poking her head through the side door as I organized the interior.

"Yep. Bedroom, kitchen, office, all in one convenient package."

"Where do you keep your computer?"

"I don't have one. Just my phone."

"How do you do research without a computer?"

Good question. I'd been winging it with my phone and whatever free Wi-Fi I could find, but if I was serious about tracking down my father, I needed a better system.

As the afternoon wore on, I found myself really looking at the space for the first time.

The van was bigger than I'd given it credit for—about eight feet wide and twelve feet long in the back area.

Currently, it was a chaotic jumble of boxes, my roll-up mattress, and random items shoved wherever they fit.

I pulled out a notebook and pencil, sketching rough measurements of the interior walls. "What are you drawing?" Poppy asked, leaning over my shoulder.

"Ideas. If I'm staying here for six months, I need better organization."

"Like what?"

I pointed to the back corner. "Maybe built-in cabinets there for clothes and supplies. And here"—I indicated the side wall—"a fold-down desk where I can spread out papers and actually think."

"Papers for what?"

I hesitated. "Research. For my job."

"Cool! Like a detective!"

Closer than she knew. I sketched a narrow cabinet that could hold hanging clothes, with drawers underneath for smaller items. The desk would need to be sturdy enough to hold books and notebooks, but compact enough to fold flat when I needed the space for sleeping.

"You could put little lights under the cabinets," Poppy suggested. "And maybe a bulletin board above the desk for pictures and important stuff."

"Those are good ideas."

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, I stared at my rough sketches.

The improvements would cost money I didn't have, but they'd also give me a real base of operations.

Somewhere I could organize my thoughts, map out connections, and systematically work through the puzzle of finding a man whose only identifying characteristic was his connection to the bourbon industry.

"This is going to be awesome," Poppy declared, flopping down on the picnic table bench. "It'll be like having a tiny house on wheels."

I looked at my faded orange van with its rust spots and dented bumper, then at my sketches. Maybe she was right. Maybe I could turn this mobile disaster into something that actually felt like home.

For the first time since arriving in Kentucky, that didn't seem impossible.