I guess in some ways, my grandfather and I took the same trip. Neither of us felt connected at the start, and by the end, we did. To me, that’s a huge thing. Because now that my heart is full, I just want my heart to stay full always. Even if it means losing my dad, I’d rather have him in my heart and then miss him than not ever have him in my heart.

Turk has to run to the bathroom. As we sit there, licking our cones, I try to imagine Billings without Aisha. It’s impossible.

“I’m gonna miss the shit out of you,” I say.

Aisha holds her cone away from her, then leans over and hugs me tight with her other arm. I bury my face in her neck, making sure not to douse her with my own cone.

“I’m gonna miss the shit out of you too,” she says.

I keep on hugging her for what feels like a long time, and what’s funny is that it doesn’t feel like a long time, really. It feels just about right. A long, right hug.

“I’ve never had a friend like you,” I say, finally pulling back.

“Black?” she says, raising an eyebrow, and I laugh.

“Exactly. That’s exactly what I meant.”

She smiles that Aisha smile, the one where her whole face gets involved. “I’ve never had a friend like you either. And we’re family now.”

“Yeah. We’re family.”

“In fact,” she says, rubbing her chin, “now that I’m kind of like your grandfather’s husband’s sort of daughter, I guess I’m like, I don’t know, your mom.”

I crack up, and I feel so much joy when she laughs too. Seeing Aisha laugh is like seeing something you only get to see a couple of times in your life. A waterfall or a meteor shower. Except you get to see it all the time if you’re lucky enough to be with her.

“I’m calling you Mommy from now on,” I say.

“Awesome. Imma hold you to that.”

That night, lying on a brand-new air mattress (thanks, Grandpa Turk!), I stare up at the ceiling that I cannot see and think about things.

I think about God. Is there a God? I prayed for help when we were sleeping in the park in Reno, and help came, in the form of an idea to do improv. But who’s to say I wouldn’t have gotten that idea without praying?

But is it possible that all this just happened randomly in the last few weeks, that I randomly met this girl, and we randomly came across this stuff, and we randomly set out on a quest, and by doing so, all our lives were forever changed?

I really don’t know. I don’t know what to think about God. Part of me wants to believe. Part of me has to believe. Part of me cannot believe.

Maybe that’s God, right there. The thing that lets us believe three different things all at once, three ideas in conflict, and yet it feels rational and normal and okay. Maybe that’s not God. Maybe that’s just my brain.

I remember what the meditation lady said in Wyoming. How prayer is like talking to God, and meditation is like listening.

So I listen. I listen for the thoughts-tripping-over-thoughts that is and always has been me. My brain that never shuts up.

And for once, that noise in my head is gone. I am lying in a basement in Billings, Montana, with my best friend asleep near me. My parents upstairs. My new grandfather too. I can hear my thoughts. They have slowed not to a crawl, but to a mere jog, and they aren’t tripping all over each other.

For once, I am quiet. Actually quiet. Which is different than not saying anything.

I remember something Aisha said to me on our never-ending drive across Utah. She said that during meditation, the leader said that when she started to pray for the first time, she was told that the basic prayer is one word: Thanks.

So I close my eyes and I say it. Not out loud, because I don’t want to get into a whole big thing about it. Just in my head. I’m not sure who I’m saying it to. I’m not 100 percent sure it matters.

Thanks, I say. Thanks.

SOME OF THE material used in Russ’s journals, most notably the puns found on pages 94–95 and 166, come courtesy of my father, Bob Konigsberg, who has been a professional punster for more than seventy years. His version of “Three Sightless Rodents” was sung to me as a child, and he is not sure if he made it up as a child, or if he heard it elsewhere. It is my great joy that these puns will be forever commemorated in this novel. Love you, Dad.

AS ALWAYS, I want to thank first and foremost my husband, Chuck Cahoy, who puts up with my frequent bouts of writer’s brain. I am the luckiest. Thanks also to my family: my mother, Shelley Doctors; my father, Bob Konigsberg; my sister, Pam Yoss; and my brother, Dan Konigsberg. You love me as I am, and I love you back as you are. To my editor, Cheryl Klein, whose reserved Midwestern sense matches perfectly with my New York “I never met an emotion I didn’t need to express” sensibility. This book would be in tatters without you. To Arthur Levine, for his support, kindness, and wisdom; the amazing team at Scholastic, especially Sheila Marie Everett, Antonio Gonzalez, Lizette Serrano, Bess Braswell, Annette Hughes, Emily Heddleson, and Tracy van Straaten. You are a dream team and I deeply appreciate your hard work and support. To my agent, Linda Epstein, who believed in me when I was faltering in that belief; Jennifer DiChiara, whose expertise is priceless to me; my dear friend Debbie Schenk, who played Aisha to my Carson on an epic research road trip; Richard Fitzgerald and Jeff Haliczer, my couchsurfing hosts, who put us up and helped me understand what it means to surf couches; Michael Abracham, my friend and San Francisco connection; the Piper Center for Creative Writing at Arizona State University; the writer friends who have been so helpful during this process, especially Brent Hartinger, Lisa McMann, Kriste Peoples, Lou Ceci, and Joey Avalos. Thank you all for your honest feedback. To early readers of Porcupine who gave me so much to think about, especially Kameron Martinez, Annika Browne, Alexis Redden, Adam Huss, Brandi Stewart, Evan Walsh, Emily Lesnick, Cathy Bonnell, and Alex Corey. You guys all changed this book for the better. To the authors/friends who amaze me with their words and inspire me to be a better writer, David Levithan, Alex London, Aaron Hartzler, A. S. King, Laurie Halse Anderson, Benjamin Alire Saenz, Jewell Parker-Rhodes, Tom Leveen, Andrew Smith, Daphne Benedis-Grab, Elizabeth Eulberg, and Martin Wilson, among others; Jeff Baranczyk for his hipster café suggestion; Eric Gaspar for his car repair expertise; and never least, to my fans, young and old, who interact with these characters I create and bring them to life. I love you and I appreciate you. Without you, these books would not exist.

BILL KONIGSBERG is the author of Openly Straight, which was named to the YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults list and won the Sid Fleischman Award for Humor, and Out of the Pocket, which won the Lambda Literary Award. When Bill traveled the same route Carson and Aisha take here, he learned that “No Exit Next 100 Miles” means “Pee now. No, really. Now.”