The writer isn't at her desk; she's in a car, letting her mind daydream through stories. Old ones, new ones and ones she wants to write.

She's spent lots of time in a car this month, making detailed packing lists and still managing to forget things. Sleeping on an air mattress, in guest rooms and hotels. Driving to see her sister, two of her very dear friends and having ice cream with a former mentor of hers. 

She played on beaches, chased kids around the zoo and drove downtown in a huge city; that last one she'd gladly never do again. But it had been such a wonderful time; she loved making memories with her friends and their children. 

Those days on the road had been so fun but also so long; she'd been happy to return to Miss Flo.  Who was perfectly fine at playcare, and just as content to go back when dropped off two weeks later. 

The world races by the car window; the writer thinks about Beth and her story. There are only a few major rewrites left before the next set of eyes look at that world.  Beth still beamed with pride at how the story was shaping up. So did the writer.  

A little dragon danced across her mind, the subject of a kids' book she was trying to figure out how to write. She was on draft three or four at this point, trying to find the right flow. 

As the writer daydreams and plots what those new rewrites might look like, the unanswered questions about jobs and school cut in like a knife, calling her to give in to the worry, to the stress. 

She squeezes her eyes shut; her hand wanders to her new necklace, her thumb tracing over the stone in the center of the heart. 

It pulls her back to reality: in a car driving down the highway. She looks to her left and finds him there, eyes focused on the road. He notices her staring and briefly takes her hand and squeezes it. "What?" he asks with that teasing tone in his voice. 

"Nothing, just you," she says with a smile, enjoying the moment.