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barley typically malted to provide enzymes needed for starch conversion

I WAS backing Ginger out of my campsite when a blur of red hair and freckles appeared in my side mirror, waving frantically.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Poppy called, jogging alongside the van as I slowed to a stop.

I rolled down the window. "Library. I need to do some research."

Her eyes lit up like I'd announced a trip to Disney World. "Can I come? Please? I love the library! They have this whole section of graphic novels and Miss DeeDee always lets me help her with the book displays."

"You'd have to ask your parents."

"I'll be right back!" She sprinted toward the camp office before I could say another word.

True to form, she reappeared within minutes, slightly out of breath but grinning triumphantly. "They said yes! Mom says I'm a free-range kid and the library is good for my intellectual development."

"Free-range kid?"

"You know, like free-range chickens. Mom read this article about how kids need more independence and less helicopter parenting.

So as long as I'm not doing anything dangerous or illegal, I get to explore and learn through experience.

" She climbed into the passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt with practiced efficiency.

"Dad says it's either that or they'll go crazy from all my questions. "

I felt a pang of sympathy for the girl's parents.

The nearest branch of the Lexington Public Library was a squatty brick building that smelled of old paper and furniture polish, with that particular library hush. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a cool, academic glow.

At the circulation desk, I filled out an application for a library card while Poppy bounced on her toes beside me, rattling off information about their summer reading program and the upcoming poetry slam for teens.

"The research desk is over there if you need help finding anything specific," the clerk said, handing me my temporary card. "Ms. Conner is our reference librarian—she's amazing at tracking down obscure information."

Poppy immediately bolted toward the young adult section, leaving me to navigate alone. I approached the research desk where a woman with silver-streaked hair and kind eyes sat surrounded by towering stacks of books.

"Ms. Conner? I'm wondering if you might help me identify some items that belonged to my mother. She used to live in this area."

She looked up from her computer screen with interest. "I can try. What kind of items?"

I pulled out the small wooden jewelry box that held my mother's few treasures—a tarnished silver bracelet, a set of miniature salt and pepper shakers that looked to be hand painted, an amber colored shot glass, various unmarked rings, an ornate tassel, a pair of stained glass earrings, a red enamel collar pin in the shape of a Pegasus.

She examined each piece carefully, turning them over in her hands.

"These earrings look handmade. Very pretty.

And the shot glass looks mouth-blown—see the tiny bubbles in the glass?

And it doesn't sit perfectly level. But it isn't signed.

" When she reached the collar pin, she paused, holding it closer to the desk lamp.

"This is interesting," she murmured, adjusting her reading glasses.

"A red Pegasus... that seems familiar somehow.

" She studied it for a long moment, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"I can't place it. There are so many corporate logos and club emblems with horses—they all start to blur together after a while. Did you do an image search online?"

I nodded. "Too many hits to look through, and none of the ones I did look through were an exact match." I wrote down my phone number. "In case you think of something that might lead me to someone who knew her."

She gave me a sympathetic look. "Of course."

I thanked her and made my way to the local history section, gathering armfuls of books about Kentucky's bourbon heritage. I found a quiet table near a window where afternoon sunlight streamed through dusty glass and began to read.

The scope of the bourbon industry was staggering.

Hundreds of distilleries, thousands of employees, generations of families whose livelihoods depended on corn mash.

Master distillers, warehouse workers, sales representatives, tour guides, marketing executives, farmers, truckers—the web of connections spread far beyond what I'd imagined.

I stared at a map showing bourbon distilleries across Kentucky, tiny dots scattered like stars across the state. Each dot represented dozens, maybe hundreds of people whose work touched the bourbon industry in some way. My father could be any one of them.

Or none of them.

The magnitude of my task hit me like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. I wasn't looking for a needle in a haystack—I was looking for a needle in a field of haystacks.

"Find anything good?" Poppy appeared beside my table, arms loaded with graphic novels and a thick book on marine biology.

I gestured to the books spread before me. "Just realizing how big this industry really is."

"That's a lot of books about whiskey," she observed, settling into the chair across from me. "Are you writing a report or something?"

"Something like that."

As I checked out my stack of books, the weight of the research ahead felt daunting. But somewhere in these pages might be a clue, a connection, a thread that would lead me closer to the man who'd left my mother—and me—behind.