Chapter 16: Ari

Prague, Czech Republic– August 2025

Previously in 1982, Colleen found comfort in the rigid structure of boarding school life and found freedom from her mom. After a playful encounter near the sports fields, Connor offered to tutor her in Spanish verbs in the student Commons after study hall.

Ari turned over and tucked her head under her pillow, trying to muffle the cacophony of hostel life. Hostelers are never quiet enough, she thought. The younger guests who had crashed into the dorm early this morning were now up again, zipping, stuffing, and cramming their assorted items into too-large bags. At least they were whispering.

Her mind returned to Ally’s comments as they broke up. “You’ve been finding scenes for other people for years. But you never found a set for us. It’s like we didn’t exist to anyone else.”

Her mind jumped to the research she’d done about her great-aunt so far. Last summer, on a visit to Liverpool to see her mother, they’d gone through her grandmother’s old journals. Ari had found a name, Dorothy, her sister called her Doro, written in the margin in careful cursive. Underneath that note was a date, and beneath the inscription, in smaller letters, the word asozial. German for “asocial.” She recalled the details her mother shared.

Dorothy had marched to Jersey on the Channel Islands with the Women’s Land Army. The Brits sent women to help tend farms as part of the war effort. She helped bring in the Jersey Royals potato crop but got trapped on the island when the Nazis invaded from 1940 to 1945. She had lived there with a woman she loved, but her mother knew nothing else about the woman. Together, the twosome made illegal radios from spare parts. Someone informed the Germans about their island-wide distribution. When the Germans broke into their house, they found the cache of parts, arrested the women, and sent them away. Dorothy did not come back.

Ari recalled the conversation with her mum.

“My mother had always been so ashamed about her sister’s life and that she was unable to save her,” said Ari’s mum.

“She must have been proud of her,” said Ari.

“No, she couldn’t talk about her. If she admitted she was a lesbian, she feared the Nazis would label her. They would send her to the camps. And she couldn’t admit to knowing about the radios either; that would also send them to the camps. Exposing her could kill the entire family.”

“There was shame about who Doro loved, wasn’t there?” Ari recalled asking.

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The Orme School, Arizona – October, 1982

The morning bell clanged from outside the cafeteria, across the dirt barnyard, through Girls Camp’s great lawn, and into Colleen’s ears.

“What the bloody hell?” Colleen jolted awake as Ayumi laughed, a bright, happy sound.

“I can’t believe even after a month that you’re not used to the schedule yet. Mandatory breakfast at 7:00 with attendance, 8:00 chores, then classes, volleyball, dinner in dress clothes, study hall for ninety minutes, then free time for an hour, and bed at 10:15. It’s all about structure.”

Ayumi was from Yokohama, Japan. She had come to Orme on a full academic scholarship and intended to return to Japan having mastered English, calculus, and whatever else the American desert had to offer. Her side of the room was arranged with a precision that made Colleen’s Louis Vuitton chaos look like a tumbled Jenga. She was also, Colleen discovered within the first week, the funniest person she had ever met. Ayumi delivered observations about American boarding school life with deadpan accuracy.

“Colleen,” Ayumi asked, “why do you keep wearing high-fashion linen to look cute when you’re covered in desert dust every time you come back to the room? Explain the logic to me.”

Colleen had laughed until her stomach hurt. She hadn’t known how much she had needed a chuckle until it happened. Ayumi had a way of showing Colleen the ridiculousness of her mother’s insistence to be one way while the environment required something different.

Her first semester at boarding school was a struggle, but Colleen slowly found joy in the daily rigor. Back home, her mom had been just as strict, but Colleen had been the target. In contrast, the school’s structure wasn’t targeted at her; it pushed everyone to excel. Strangely, there was comfort in the rhythm. The rigidity applied to everyone equally, which turned out to feel entirely different. Just like the morning bell that woke them all at once; strict in its ringing, but comforting in the fact that everyone rose together.

She also loved her volleyball team. They had strength training and practice every day. Her ultrathin frame was developing some nice shape. And she could finally devour the potatoes! She certainly didn’t miss the glaring parental eyes of her mother tracking her every calorie at the family-style meals in the school’s cafeteria. She could finally eat and be herself; not the socialite daughter her mother eagerly needed her to be.

Colleen adored hearing her fellow students’ languages from around the world as she ambled past the original one-room adobe school to the library to study, or to the chemistry lab across the football field. The walk back from the gym through the cottonwood trees excited her the most.

On her way, she could get a glimpse of Connor working his soccer skills after football practice. His Irish flag sweatband held back his floppy red hair, which was still short enough for school regulations. Of course, he sported a variety of soccer jerseys from Europe proclaiming the best football teams in the world. They’d interacted a few times in Spanish class, but he always seemed to avoid her in real life.

Colleen kicked a stray soccer ball on her trail back toward Connor with a surprisingly clean stroke. He trapped the pass with his chest and jogged up to her.

“Not a bad strike. So how’s Up Elliott?”

She couldn’t believe he was actually, really, talking to her.

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Chapter 14: Ari

Prague, Czech Republic– August 2025

Ari’s rainbow-colored backpack sagged from her shoulders, the straps digging into her collarbones. After cheering on the participants in the Prague PrideFest, she was out of energy. Her sixty-three-year old frame stumbled into the hostel. Younger guests lounging in bean bags eyed her. She glanced around, hoping some older hostelers might be around. Ari just wanted to open a beer, put her feet up, and relax. She’d been in seven archives in three years. Prague’s Society for Queer Memory would be the eighth. Whatever was in there, she’d find it tomorrow.

She opened Facebook and posted her picture at the LGTBQI parade. Immediately, the likes and loves buttons started counting approval from a community she helped build. She’d never married; she didn’t see the need. When she wanted companionship, she could always find it in this community that she loved.

She opened the Bolt app and searched for vegan food in Prague, ordered its specialty, a vegan potato goulash, and waited for its delivery. In her three years of full-time travel, she’d tried as many regional vegan foods as she could. Her favorite was the coconut curry vegetable dish of khao soi in Thailand. But she also adored the hummus of Turkiye and how the Turks served the spread with a million little dishes with olives, tapenades, and pickled carrots.

Ari opened her phone’s camera and took a picture. Old habits died hard. She’d spent a career scouting sets for English filmmakers. As a kid growing up in Liverpool, camera crews showed up everywhere, either filming for WWII scenes, Beatles history, or even the anger of the locals fighting the long arm of London politics. Her love for film peaked while roaming the backstreets of the UK in her beat-up Land Rover, looking for perfect settings. But when fake scenes could be created in a lab through CGI, she retired. She was no longer needed.

She titled the photo, “Grungy hostel scene, Prague.”

A chat message popped up on her phone. “Hey girl, where are you?” her friend Vicki asked.

She didn’t know Vicki in real life, but they had become friendly via their Nomad Life Facebook group. Occasionally they’d chat about ideas on where to travel. Since both were solo females and also full-time Nomads, they had tips to share.

“In Prague. Just enjoyed the parade. Thinking about heading to the Josefov Ghetto and then finishing the day at the astronomical clock. Have you been there?” asked Ari.

“The Jewish Quarter? Heavy stuff. You okay with that?”

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Chapter: 13 George

Los Angeles, CA – August 2025

George sipped his Brandy Alexander while eyeing the last known photograph of John Lennon and George Harrison hanging from the oak walls of the Troubadour bar in Los Angeles. The bartender clearly had mixed Lennon’s favorite drink before. He got the nuance of the sprinkled nutmeg, George thought, and floated the cream on the brandy right.

It would be the last Brandy Alexander George would have in the U.S. After a year tracing famous Beatles sites around America, he was finally jumping the pond to London. He’d leave in the morning out of LAX.

On his second sip, he remembered his wife, Valeria, and how much she loved this drink. He recalled the night he told Vale that he wanted to learn to make Brandy Alexanders. Instead of him getting behind the home bar, she jumped up and took over. When she tried to shake the brandy and crème de cacao mixture, the shaker flared apart, and the sticky boozy mixture sprayed out all over her red hair. They laughed hard. He had leaned over the bar and licked the flavors off her elbows as it dripped down into their shag carpet.

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Chapter 12: Dave and Grazia

Tampa, Florida – December 2023

At least I’ll leave with money in my pocket, thought Dave as he watched his boss give year-end bonuses to all 200 employees. The annual holiday party was obnoxious, especially the open bar. Even after twenty-seven years sober, Dave couldn’t tune out the hypnotic snap of wine corks releasing from bottles. To most, it was the sound of celebration; to him, it was the sound he’d spent half of his life learning to ignore.

Once Dave got his check, he placed it in the inside Napoleon pocket of his leather motorcycle jacket, and decided to leave. He wanted to be around the other gearheads as little as possible. Engineers were boring. Himself included.

He said a clipped good-bye to his teammates and approached his Harley in the company’s parking lot. The shine he’d polished into its chrome last night still shimmered. A tall woman with long, dark hair stood eyeing his bike.

He approached her from her side. “You ride?” Dave said to Grazia, as he eyed her black leather pants, sparkly heels, and fuzzy red Christmas sweater.

“Oh. Ah. No. I’m just catching the sunset. I love getting a shot every night.” Grazia said, adjusting her reindeer-ears headband that was sliding down her brunette bangs. “But did you know the Harley motor sound is one of only seven sounds that’s trademarked?”

“No. Hadn’t heard that,” said Dave, as he pulled on the coarse hair of his beard.

Grazia cocked her head, moving her gaze from the bike to his face. “Do I know you?” Grazia asked. “I’ve never seen you before. I know everyone here. You must be new.”

“I’ve been here thirty-two years. Got exactly 701 days left until I can clear out my desk and ride my bike forever.”

“I can’t believe we’ve never run into each other. I’m going on twenty years myself. Also on the two-year plan. But I’ll miss this place. It’s been a big part of my life.”

Dave shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t wait to ride all the way to Slovakia to find my family. No more blueprints. No more meetings about meetings.”

Grazia positioned her phone and took a picture as the sun touched the Gulf. “Every night I do my best to get a shot. They’re so hopeful, sunsets. I love them.”

She turned to Dave and flipped her hair so slightly.

“Last I checked, there’s no bridge from Tampa to Slovakia. You gonna build that in the next seven hundred days, engineer?”

“Ha. Clever. Nope. I’ll ship the bike, cruise over on the Queen Mary 2, and ride the rest of the way.”

Grazia’s heels clicked as she walked around the bike, examining its sleek red trim that highlighted the strong angles. Dark chrome shone like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

While she eyed the bike, Dave studied her. Grazia’s young attitude didn’t match her age, and he appreciated that. Fun, but not stupid, he thought. A rare combo. He liked extroverted women. They were a nice foil to his introverted self.

He held out his hand. “Dave.”

She gripped his palm. “Grazia.”

Dave reached for the handlebars, unlocking the steering lock.

“I got this Road Glide Limited especially for the trip. I’m going solo, but it’d be fun to have someone on the back with me.”

“Are you inviting me to Europe?” She faced him directly, squaring her hips to his. She tilted her head, twirled the ends of her hair and said, “I don’t even know your last name!”

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The first eight chapters of Kindling released to all subscribers. Only paid subscribers can see past the previews from Chapter 9 onwards.

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Chapter 11: Grazia

Tampa, Florida – December 2023

Grazia had one clear memory of her childhood in Cuba.

A glass wall, la pecera, at the Havana airport, her mother’s hands pressed flat against it from the other side; her father drawing a heart with his finger in the condensation. She was five years old. “Give Tia Rosa a hug from us, dulcita,” she remembered them saying. “We’ll see you soon.”

Her father was a lector in a Havana cigar factory where he read newspapers and novels to the cigar rollers, the torcedores, who sat at long tables with their hands moving constantly, manipulating the tobacco. The workers voted at the beginning of each week for the material they wanted him to share. He understood something few people articulate. What you read shapes what you become. Three hundred torcedores trusted him with that. He took his influence seriously.

Which is why, in 1961 as the Cuban Revolution closed in, he put his daughter on a flight to Miami.

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The first eight chapters of Kindling released to all subscribers. Starting with Chapter 9, only paid subscribers can see past the preview.

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Chapter: 10 Dave

Tampa, Florida – Summer 2023

Dave forced the key into the lock of his storage unit and heaved the corrugated door open. He had chores to do. Inside, stacks of cardboard boxes were caving in on themselves. He’d moved the boxes here after his parents’ accident almost three decades ago and hadn’t been back to the locker in over ten years. A musty smell knocked him back. The air conditioning clearly had failed.

He removed his navy-blue ball cap with a USA flag on it, wiped his hand across his sweaty brow, then tugged the brim back down his forehead. The unrelenting Florida heat dripped from his tshirt. He scavenged a portable trash bin from the warehouse front desk. After three decades paying rent on a tomb, what could possibly still be in there that he needed? He lifted two boxes at a time and tossed them wholesale into the trash along with a lamp, a broken chair, and a basket with moldy blankets in it. Dust spewed into the air.

Clearing out the boxes unhid a pine side table of his mother’s he’d forgotten.

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Kindling is an exclusive benefit for my paid subscribers and founding members. The first eight chapters were free; the remaining novel requires a paid subscription. Please support the arts, writers, and good content by subscribing today. Thank you.

My apologies to those expecting this chapter yesterday. I simply scheduled it for the wrong date.*

Chapter 9: Scott and Kelly

Bucharest, Romania — August 2025, One Day Earlier

“Cheers!” said Scott as he clinked a fresh limonada with Kelly’s elderberry socată.

Kelly smiled at Scott, his disheveled hair and nose slightly sunburned. Around them, the grand Ionic columns of the Romanian Athenaeum and its imposing dome framed the Bucharest plaza. Tourists zigzagged across the tree-lined space, capturing every moment of their vacations, snatching up embroidered purses and hand-painted ashtrays from vendors.

Kelly wiped a smudge of mud off Scott’s sleeve, a hiking shirt she’d seen almost every day for the last two weeks. “If I see this worn-out hiking shirt one more day, I might burn it,” Kelly joked, “It’s got more miles on it than a Flix bus.”

He laughed. “Right back at you with your purple shorts.”

Kelly stretched out her legs. After five days of hiking Romania’s Via Transilvanica, the couple was in recovery mode. They’d hiked through valleys and forests in the countryside of Transylvania. Kelly loved when the villagers invited them to ride in their horse-drawn sleds through meadows they never would have found on their own. Scott taught her about the Saxons and their centuries of influence on Romanian agriculture, they climbed fortified churches that had been built to withstand Ottoman raids, and on one hot afternoon Kelly had begged a local shopkeeper to open his door so they could get ice cream.

Old men sipping afternoon coffees in the cafe ignored the impressive Athenaeum’s facade and continued with their card games, oblivious to Kelly and Scott.

“To five amazing years of Nomad Life. Happy Nomadaversy to the best husband and travel partner ever,” Kelly said.

“A truly remarkable part of our life together, honey,” said Scott. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Really? You don’t miss any of our stuff?” Kelly asked.

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For the past month, Kindling has hit your in box every Tuesday and Thursday. The relay is about to begin; a few more characters need to enter the story.

If you’ve missed a chapter or two, how about enjoying this Sunday with a nice iced tea and catch up?

Here are the first eight chapters. Briefly, Scott and Kelly left Kelly’s Kindle in Bucharest when they left for Sofia. Marcus and Leenie handed their keys to their real estate agent in Fresno and have jetted off to Venice with Marcus singing limericks along the way. A flashback to the 1980s finds Colleen and Connor meeting at a boarding school in Arizona. What happens next?

Chapter 1: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 2: Marcus and Leenie

Chapter 3: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 4: Colleen and Connor

Chapter 5: Marcus and Leenie

Chapter 6: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 7: Colleen and Connor

Chapter 8: Marcus and Leenie

Coming on Tuesday: Chapter 9: Scott and Kelly. Coming on Thursday: Chapter 10: Dave.

There are a few more characters entering the relay. After all, the Kindle is still in Bucharest, and we need somone to pick it up.

Take a moment this Sunday and catch up with a writer, a historian, a wine lover, a limerist, a Cuban, a Harley aficionado, a Beatles fan, an LGTBQI activist, an archivist, and genealogist, and an Irishman.

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Thanks everyone. I truly value each and every one of you.

Chris

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The first eight chapters of Kindling will release to all subscribers on Tuedays and Thursdays each week. Starting with Chapter 9, only paid subscribers can see past the preview.

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Chapter 8: Marcus and Leenie

Venice, Italy – August 2025

Five hours of napping and a couple of aspirin later, Leenie and Marcus laced up their walking shoes and headed to the bus station to ride a vaporetto to Venice. A floating bus the size of two bowling alleys pulled up. With the flurry of tourists, they stepped down to the seats.

Languages ribboned through the air. Italian. German. Japanese. Arabic. Luckily, the announcer included English when instructing riders where to disembark.

The vaporetto entered Venice’s Grand Canal, passing under Calatrava Bridge where tourists posed, snapping selfies on the stone and glass steps, the sleek railings keeping them from falling into the canal.

Leenie breathed in deeply. “We did it honey. We’ve retired. We crossed the finish line. We’re in Venice. We’re in VENICE!”

Marcus squeezed her hand. Baroque, Renaissance, and Gothic buildings reached up to the sky from the water’s edge as the boat serpentined through the canals of Venice. Smaller traghettis scurried locals across the canals, while fancy black gondolas with golden trim piloted by men wearing the classic red-and-white tops ferried tourists. Vibrant pink bougainvillea spilled from windowsill pots. Leenie’s skin prickled as the salty air coated her arms.

They disembarked at San Marco basin, eyeing the Doge’s Palace. Its three ornate tiers of pink and white diamonds atop arches and columns caused Marcus to clear his throat, a telltale sign to Leenie that a limerick was coming.

“There once was a girl from Cali

Who dreamed of going to Bali

But instead without malice

Discovered an Italian Palace

And found it was where she could dally.”

“I think you’re still jetlagged,” said Leenie.

Marcus spied a sign for a walking tour through the Jewish Ghetto. In a country where the Vatican centered it, he expressed his surprise to Leenie that he didn’t expect any other religions to appear there. He scanned the reviews online of the tour and discovered that the walk was off the beaten path and where most tourists didn’t go. “Perfect,” he told Leenie.

They met up with the tour guide, a 22-year old student studying Jewish History at Venice International University, and twenty other tourists. In a cramped public square, the guide shared how the word “ghetto” originated in Venice, and the ghetto where they currently stood was the first to dictate where Jews could live, starting in the 16th century. The tour continued around a Holocaust memorial, past antique stores with hand-blown glass chess boards, and near five historic skolas, or synagogues. They ended at the Panificio Volpe Giovanni, a Jewish bakery, a perfect place to take a break.

Marcus ordered the two traditional lemon flavored biscotti esse and two caffès. They stood at the bar, enjoying their treat while making plans for the rest of the day.

“Marcus, look at me. I know it’s a tourist trap. But I want to take a gondola ride. I mean, we’re in VENICE!” Leenie said.

She watched Marcus fidget, likely doing the math on the 80 euro price-tag. “I think they’re like $100 for thirty minutes. Do you think it’s worth it?”

“We didn’t squeeze into economy class to miss the budget on the dream items,” he said.

They finished their treats and meandered to the canal, finding the gondola stop. Several gondoliers queued, assisting passengers onto their watery chariots. Picking one was hard, as every gondolier dressed the same in his traditional uniform. Yet some boats had red velvet benches and a few had flowers draped around the edges.

Right as they were about to decide, a gondola glided up piloted by a woman. They heard one of the tourists in line grumble, “I hope we don’t get that lady. I want the full traditional experience.”

“I want her!” exclaimed Leenie. They swapped places with the grumbler.

Marcus glanced at the narrow gondola bench then back at Leenie then back at the bench, frowning and showing a clear look of doubt. He stayed quiet. Leenie had dreamed about this experience for years, and frankly, nothing was going to keep her from enjoying it. “Let me help you,” he said.

They stepped into the gondola. The boat wobbled, but the pilot knew perfectly how to position herself so they would easily transition from land to water. Leenie and Marcus sat down, fitting comfortably.

Their float began, but first Leenie wanted the backstory of Venice’s only gondoliera, Giorgia Boscolo.

“The story is simple,” Giorgia said as her long thin arms moved the oars lithely and her golden hair in a ponytail tied with a red ribbon swished. The gondola glided among the other water traffic. “My father was a gondolier, and now I’m one. He supported me. We had to fight a few of the locals, but in the end, here I am.”

Leenie imagined that the fight might have been difficult. After all, Italy was slow to let go of the patriarchy, but she thought it’d be best to let Giorgia share the story the way she wanted.

And so they continued along their way. Leenie and Marcus relaxed into the red tufted bench and listened to Giorgia describe the ride. Rather than discuss the buildings, she pointed out where her cousins, aunt, brother, parents, grandmother, and niece lived. All within two canals of each other. Each Sunday, they gathered at their grandmother’s for dinner. The ladies would hand make the pasta together in the kitchen while the men bottled the family’s wine vinted from their own grapes. She never missed the weekly ritual.

As the float came to its end, Giorgia quieted. Leenie appreciated the experience she’d shown even though Giorgia had only been on the water for fifteen years. Clearly, she knew the silence often creates the best experience for her riders.

Marcus turned to Leenie. “For 38 years I’ve been trying to write a Leenie limerick,” he said as he watched the canal go by. “Still haven’t figured it out.”

“It’s because nothing rhymes with Leenie,” his wife said.

“Teenie, meanie. No, it’s that I can’t find the last line. Every time I think I’ve got it, it’s not enough.”

Leenie smiled. When Marcus got serious, it always made her laugh because his seriousness came off so unexpectedly. He was always the light hearted one who rarely showed his feelings.

“I know. I love you too,” she said as she took a selfie of the three of them. Then she posted the picture to the Nomad Life group with the comment,

Best day ever.

Next: The story rewinds to Bucharest to uncover the growing tension regarding Scott and Kelly’s long-term travel plans.

Author Notes:

Like Leenie and Marcus, we jumped at the chance to take a gondola ride in Venice. Steve was hesitant about the price, too, but in the end, it was the best $100 we’ve ever spent on a tourist trap. We loved every minute of it. Don’t hesitate.

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P.S. Starting with Chapter 9 on Tuesday, you must be a paid subscriber to continue reading Kindling. The fun is just starting. The relay launches soon; and you’ve got 4 more characters to meet. Upgrade now.

The first eight chapters of Kindling will release to all subscribers on Tuedays and Thursdays each week. Starting with Chapter 9, only paid subscribers can see past the preview.

Subscribe now

Chapter 7: Colleen and Connor

The Orme School, Arizona — October 1982

“You’re lucky.” Connor said to Colleen. “So many students get dropped in the middle of the desert and hate it. They count the days until they can go home, but their parents have bigger plans. Or they just find they can’t parent.” He paused. Did he just tread somewhere he shouldn’t have? “But then for some of us, the ranch is a five-star resort compared to the home situation.”

Colleen stopped to pick a rock out from her sandal. “Have you been here long?”

“Third year here. I’m a junior. It’s good here. It’s my home,” said Connor. “Coach Miller, the Dean you just met, he’s a fine man. He’ll watch out for you. Ms. Davis, she’s a bit tough, but she loves us.”

They continued to Elliott House to the top floor, one floor up in a dorm with eight rooms. Colleen’s room was one of only four in Girls Camp that had a balcony. All the other dorm rooms were repurposed cowboy bunk houses of the working ranch. Their low-slung roofs, adobe walls, and wooden slats for doors appeared rustic at best.

She silently thanked her dad for selecting Elliott House. She was glad to be on the second floor, safely away from the rattlesnakes that plagued both her home in California and here in the Arizona desert.

Connor opened the front door to Elliott House and threw one bag over his shoulder. He grabbed the handles of the other two and climbed the stairs two at a time. An impressive act. Colleen noticed.

The door to her room was open. He entered the bright space and dropped her bags next to the closet.

She followed behind him. The room smelled of fresh paint. Connor cranked open a window and pulled the repaired cord of the ceiling fan. Two wooden bed frames held twin, sagging mattresses. Two simple desks squared with identical wooden chairs. Two wooden bookshelves held two black lamps. Two four-drawer dressers. White cinder block walls. Duplicates of everything simplified her choices.

She looked around the room and breathed. The room was rough, but it’d be her space, free from parental judgment. She could be who she wanted to be here.

Her roommate hadn’t arrived yet.

“First rule of dorm life: stake your claim on the good mattress now,” Connor said. “Also, move the room around in a way you like it before your roomie gets here. Don’t wait and be nice.”

Weird advice, Colleen thought. Shouldn’t I wait? At least Connor’s Irish accent sounded sexy.

Connor stopped at the door. Her name was written on a card slotted into the brass holder, Colleen Collins.

“Collins,” he said. “That’s Irish. Huh. I wonder if we’re cousins?”

He skipped down the stairs before she could answer.

Colleen took Connor’s advice and screeched the beds across the linoleum to position under the windows. A spider scurried up the wall. Rather than scream and expect her dad to help, she trapped the spider in a plastic cup, slid a piece of paper between the spider and the cinder block, and released it from the balcony. She returned to her room.

The closet held sixteen hangers. She claimed eight. Now, I need tunes, she thought. She had packed so quickly when her dad finally gave her the go-ahead, she couldn’t remember what was where. She opened all three bags, found her radio, plugged it in and immediately heard Joan Jett belting out, “Leather and Lace.” That’s better.

She easily filled the eight hangers. With her remaining clothes, she neatly folded them and placed them on the liners she put in the bottom of the drawers. In the bathroom that she would share with the two gals next door, she claimed a spot for her toothbrush, makeup remover, mascara, and deodorant. She placed her shampoo and conditioner in the shower, which was old with broken tiles and a bent drain lid, but at least it was clean.

Back in her room, she smoothed the shimmering white 1000-thread Egyptian cotton sheets on the sagging mattress. Really, mom?, thought Colleen. The extravagance felt wildly out of place on a desert ranch. She hung her favorite picture of the hiking trail behind her house north of San Diego. Hopefully there’d be some good hiking here in the desert, too.

She haphazardly stacked the pieces of her luggage in the closet, spilling over into the other half of her roommate’s space. She’d have to deal with that later.

Once unpacked, she returned to the balcony where she’d released the spider. A hammock hung in the corner. She approached it, wondering what the elegant way would be to get into it. She turned her back to the hammock, held one of its edges, and gently placed her bottom into the drape while simultaneously twisting and lifting her legs parallel to the hammock. She failed. It flipped her in two seconds, plopping her on the dirty balcony floor.

“Dammit,” she said, hoping no one witnessed her lack of grace. Her mother would have been appalled.

She wiped off the dirt and tried again. This time with success. In the distance beyond the cottonwood trees, she could barely see the other students continuing to arrive. She wondered where Connor had gone.

“I see you found my hammock,” said a voice at the slider to the balcony.

Colleen turned to find a short, fair-skinned student with straight black hair cut in a bob. She looked about the same age as Colleen, seventeen, wearing white athletic shorts and a red Hello Kitty t-shirt. “I’m Ayumi, your roommate. Welcome newbie. Want to help me get my stuff out of storage from the summer? Or are you going to hog the balcony all afternoon?”

Next: we’re back in Venice, where Marcus and Leenie are boarding a vaporetto into the city.

Author Notes:

I called The Orme School home for three years during high school. Up Elliott One was my room during my senior year. While Colleen meets only one spider in Kindling, we had to deal with a bevy of critters almost everyday, including javelinas and coyotes! I loved the school.

The first eight chapters of Kindling are free to everyone. Starting with Chapter 9, you must be a paid subscriber. Upgrade today.

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P.S. Chapter 8 will release on Thursday. Starting with Chapter 9 on Tuesday, you must be a paid subscriber to continue reading Kindling. The fun is just starting. The relay launches soon; and you’ve got 4 more characters to meet. Upgrade now.

A few weeks ago, Kelly, the star in my new novel, Kindling, left her Kindle behind in Bucharest. A bevy of characters have entered the story—Scott, Colleen, Connor, Leenie, and Marcus—to help relay the Kindle back to her. Soon, you’ll meet Grazia, Dave, Ari, AJ, and George as the story travels through favorite spots in Europe.

The story clips along every Tuesday and Thursday. If you need to catch up, here are the first six chapters.

Chapter 1: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 2: Marcus and Leenie

Chapter 3: Scott and Kelly

Chapter 4: Colleen and Connor

Chapter 5: Marcus and Leenie

Chapter 6: Scott and Kelly

Chapters 7 and 8 come out this Tuesday and Thursday.

Take a moment this Sunday and catch up with a writer, a historian, a wine lover, a limerist, a Cuban, a Harley aficionado, a Beatles fan, an LGTBQI activist, an archivist, and genealogist, and an Irishman.

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Thanks everyone. I truly value each and every one of you.

Chris

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The first eight chapters of Kindling will release to all subscribers on Tuesdays and Thursdays each week. Starting with Chapter 9, only paid subscribers can see past the preview.

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Chapter 6: Scott and Kelly

Bucharest, Romania — August 2025, The Day Before

Kelly turned her attention back to Scott. He’d asked a fair question. “I loved how we rode bikes everywhere in Riga,” Kelly said. And then we shot up to Finland for the day. What a great city.”

From Riga, they’d gone to Spain to hike and bike the Camino, followed by a week in Paris, and eventually made their way to Romania.

“You know honey,” Kelly said, averting her gaze, then her eyes crinkled as she smiled at him. “What if we did next year differently?”

She felt a shift in their Nomad Life approaching, but didn’t know what a change in lifestyle would be. She was starting to tire of the constant travel. Although India and Africa still loomed, she could feel the pull to return to some favorite places.

Kelly checked her watch. The afternoon was passing quickly.

“Let’s talk about our plans later. I want to squeeze in the Museum of the Romanian Peasant,” Kelly said.

While hiking, Kelly had seen women in the villages wearing the traditional blouses called ia, their geometric patterns hand-stitched with the specific stories of each family’s lineage. Her grandmother had been a professional seamstress her whole working life. Kelly wanted to honor her grandmother’s memory with a visit.

At the museum, exhaustion set in. She managed to send a few pictures of the famous tops to her sister, who appreciated the ode to their grandmother. Although the gift shop tempted Kelly, she passed. There was never room in her bag for anything that wasn’t multi-functional and lightweight.

When they arrived at their hotel near the Greek Embassy, Kelly asked for a late checkout. Why get up early?

While Scott took the first hot shower, Kelly started on the recombobulation of their stuff. They organized their gear to maximize weight distribution, moving hiking clothes into backpacks and computers into carry-ons which they paid to portage to the next hotel while on the trail. She pulled everything out of their bags and strewed it all around the room across the bedside tables, the bureau, and the floor.

With showers taken, they settled into the comfy queen-sized bed; a nice duvet cover and a top sheet, a rarity in Europe, would be good to snuggle. They’d have time to repack in the morning.

“Are you too tired to meditate?” Kelly asked about Scott’s nightly routine.

“No.” He’d started the habit a few years prior after a month with fellow nomads in Buenos Aires. The guys would gather every morning on the rooftop of one of their apartments. One of them led a group yoga practice followed by twenty-minutes of self-reflection. They’d kept up the practice and their friendships despite being spread around the world. “Which book are you reading tonight?”

“I think I’m going to add some notes about Romania. I want to send some thoughts to the trail managers and annotate for my blog.”

Scott finished his nightly meditation. “Good night, Kel. Easy morning, right? No alarms in the morning. Time to sleep in, pack. Have a cuppa tea?”

“Yup. There’s a continental breakfast downstairs.” She kissed him. “Happy nomadaversary, babe.”

Scott smiled, then rolled over to sleep.

Before shutting her eyes for the night, Kelly tried, once again, to sync her Kindle. Her favorite possession still wasn’t working correctly. She’d been fiddling with the settings and had hoped that some good wifi in the hotel would be effective. She could download books but she couldn’t upload anything. It’d been months since she’d been able to backup her notes and screenshots.

She placed her Kindle on the nightstand and turned out the light.

Next: The story returns to the rustic past of the Arizona desert. Colleen is about to settle further into school life, unaware that a fast-moving friendship is about to shift her entire world.

Author Notes:

While we were in Bucharest, we had the chance to squeeze in a meal with some other nomads passing through. They’d found us on our youtube channel and reached out. We love to meet other full-time travelers.

The first eight chapters of Kindling are free to everyone. Starting with Chapter 9, you must be a paid subscriber. Upgrade today.

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Previously, we go back to 1982 and the Arizona boarding school where a red-haired Irish boy picked up a girl’s bags and asked if they might be cousins. Read Chapter 4.

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Chapter 5: Marcus and Leenie

Fresno Airport Fairfield Inn — July 2025

Leenie had spent three years researching full-time travel before they retired in Fresno. One trick she took to heart: ease your departure day by staying at the airport hotel the night before an early flight. Eliminate the morning chaos and give yourself a fighting chance at sleep, assured the tip.

At the hotel, Marcus composed the limerick that would launch their journey. He had been teasing it for three days. He read the limerick aloud with appropriate ceremony:

“Just two travelers on their way

To adventure on each and every day

We have no possessions

Nor religious concessions

Taking in the day, come what may.”

Leenie rolled her eyes. Sounds like John Lennon, she thought. She hoped all the red varietals they’d uncover hidden in the world’s wineries would help her treasure Marcus’s poetry better. His obsession with limericks had peppered her life every day they’d been together, even showing up as part of their wedding vows. She wondered if their upcoming stop in Limerick, Ireland, would solidify his dream of becoming a professional limerick’ist or kill it for good.

“I posted in the Nomad Life Facebook group that we launched,” Leenie said. She was elated she’d stumbled upon the Nomad Life Facebook group while researching cities to visit. This diverse group made them both feel welcome. Every week, other full-time travelers posted where they’d be in the world. When folks overlapped they reached out to each other and grabbed dinner, a walk, a concert, or whatever else might be going on in their shared geography. The nomads posted pictures from Danang, Vietnam to Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, and gushed how their meetups carried on for hours.

Leenie believed the group would be a way to meet other travelers and also squelch Marcus’s fear of loneliness and isolation.

Marcus asked “Did you say we’d be tasting reds in Italy? Or that I’m going to win the Limerick competition in Ireland?”

“Venice. It’s too soon to post about Ireland. That’s weeks from now.” Leenie couldn’t wait to check out a boutique winery at the bottom of Stelvio Nature Park near Tyrol, Italy. She’d read about it in Wine Enthusiast.

After a night of perfect sleep avoiding the jittery what-ifs at the Fresno Airport Fairfield Inn (where Leenie tried out her new-found skill of using hotel points for free stays), Marcus pulled their hotel door closed. For the first time in what seemed like forever, no one had to make a bed or scrub a toilet. This was a benefit of Nomad Life that Leenie knew she’d enjoy.

A domestic flight to Newark seemed reasonable. With their extra-large body sizes, she feared the coach seats would be too wrenching. On the flight to Newark, they tested their packing system. Marcus wedged their carry-ons in the overhead, while Leenie shoved the backpacks under their seats. Everything fit perfectly. On their first-ever red-eye to Venice from Newark, she picked the window seat so she could sleep with her head against the window, and Marcus took the aisle to stretch out. Miraculously, the middle seat remained empty. She thanked the travel gods.

When they landed in Venice, Marcus unfolded his cramped legs. Leenie tried to unkink her neck.

“Honey, we need a new strategy if we do any more long flights. I feel like a snail in a too small shell,” Marcus said. “Toss me the aspirin, baby.”

“Me too,” Leenie said, reaching around to rub her back.

They cleared immigration with their carry-ons. Before stepping out into the Italian sunshine, Leenie visited the airport ATM to withdraw some Euros. They bought a couple bottles of water. It’d be good to have some small change in case they couldn’t tap their phones to pay on the bus.

Leenie had researched how to make sure her phone would work when they landed in Europe, and it’d paid off. Google quickly displayed the info they needed to locate the local bus station for a short ride to their hotel.

A sleek public bus pulled up a few minutes late. They tapped their phone to pay and sat down for their ten-minute ride. At the hotel, the host looked surprised. “Signora, why are you checking in too late? You were supposed to be here last night?”

Leenie had learned this trick in the Facebook group, too. If you’re arriving after a red-eye, you often can’t check into a hotel until the afternoon. Rather than dragging luggage around like zombies, make a reservation for the night before your arrival, suggested the tip. She was happy she’d mastered this trick; they needed a good nap.

When Marcus opened the door, Leenie crumbled from laughter. “How is that a King-sized bed? It’s a twin.”

From the doorway, they fell into the bed, Marcus’s feet dangling off the end of the mattress and Leenie smashed up against the wall, like two cannolis squeezed into a take-out box. Their laughter echoed down the hallway. Their bags squeezed between the door and the bed, leaving no room to stand if they wanted. Nor was there space for nightstands or a desk. Leenie continued to laugh, vibrating Marcus on the mattress. He giggled.

“I can’t use my CPAP breathing machine tonight, it won’t fit anywhere,” Leenie gasped, catching her breath.

“That’s okay,” Marcus joked. “We’re so close I’ll just put my hand over your mouth.”

Next: This story returns to the day before the bus ride, when Kelly tries one more time to sync her Kindle.

Author Notes:

We’ve learned that bed sizing around the world is very different than what we’re familiar with in the USA. Fulls are twins, Kings are Queens. This bed in Greece had us laughing so hard; we ended up getting a second room. One for me, one for Steve so we could get a good night’s sleep. Have you struggled with getting the bed size you need?

The first eight chapters of Kindling are free to everyone. Starting with Chapter 9, you must be a paid subscriber. Upgrade today.

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Previously, Scott and Kelly make their way to Sofia and hatch the plan to get the Kindle back. Read Chapter 3.

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Chapter 4: Colleen and Connor

The Orme School, Arizona — August 1982

Colleen would never forget the first time she saw Connor. He was perched on the top rail of a split-rail fence with his football teammates, surveying the new students as they arrived down the dirt road, parents at the wheel squinting into the afternoon desert sun. His broad shoulders held up his bright green shirt with an Irish harp on it, the word Ireland spread across the front. Giant cottonwood trees shaded the team.

Her father parked their Cadillac a few yards across from the fence. With the boys watching, she was sure, she did her best to exit the car as gracefully as she had been trained. Open the car door, gently swing both legs around to the ground, and carefully push her tall, lean self out of the backseat of the car. Like a lady. Perfect exit, she thought. Connor must have noticed.

She breathed in the scent of her new school. Sun-baked dirt, aged manure, and the sweet scent of mesquite. Totally opposite of the beachy scents of the Pacific Ocean and its cool breezes from home. A large red barn framed one end of the dirt parking lot, assorted western style buildings ran parallel on each side, and a rustic arc made from tree poles squared the entrance. The ranch’s brand created from wood hung from the top of the arc in the middle.

While her mother executed the exit maneuver from the front seat, Colleen watched the other students ramble in. Some arrived in six-wheeled pick-up trucks and horse trailers. A dazed few meandered through the barnyard, clearly jetlagged from long flights from the Middle East. Many arrived in Arizona-plated cars, likely short hops from Phoenix.

It baffled her how two hundred students from around the world had found this co-ed boarding school an hour north of Phoenix on a three-hundred acre ranch. She’d read in the welcome material that one hundred-fifty students returned each year. Forty new students had arrived this year, most of them freshmen. Colleen was among the few entering as a junior.

Parents helped muscle duffles, boxes, and mismatched luggage. Everyone wore jeans, some wore boots, all looked ready for an adventure in education and boarding school living. Colleen, meanwhile, pressed her hands down her linen trousers, smoothing out the wrinkles from the six-hour car ride, adjusted her cute cotton crop top, and fiddled with her gold bracelets. Her white sandals immediately dirtied as she crossed the dusty parking lot to the check-in desk in a rustic, wooden shack painted red.

Above the door hung a hand-painted sign, “Deans’ Office.” A few cobwebs hung in the glass panes, and a fig tree ripe with plump fruit provided shade. “Welcome,” said Ms Davis, the Dean of Girls, as she handed her the padlock code to her dorm room and an information packet. “One of the boys on the fence would be happy to help with your bags.”

Colleen’s father signed the paperwork. She eyed the scene in the barnyard, watching parents hug their young adults. Many smiles beamed from both parents and students. Some students cried, others ran past their parents to their friends, hugging each other after long summers apart.

None of the boys, however, jumped up to help her.

“Ireland, come help Ms., huh, Colleen. Would ya?” yelled Mr Miller, the Dean of Boys.

“Yes sir, Coach,” Connor said. He dismounted the fence and trotted over to the Cadillac, tagged with plates from California. The car’s trunk popped open, revealing three well-crafted and matched Louis Vuitton luggage.

Her mother turned to Colleen, awkwardly putting both hands on Colleen’s shoulders for a rigid air-kissed goodbye. “Don’t eat starches. No bread. No potatoes. They’ll cling to your figure and ruin your look by midterms.” She turned to her husband, “Arthur, I’m ready.”

Colleen squirmed. She turned to her father to go in for a hug, but he shook her hand instead.

Connor witnessed the cold interaction.

“Hello, I’m Connor O’Connell, welcome to The Orme School.”

“O’Connell?” Colleen’s father hesitated when he said the name, paused, then: “Take the matched set there,” he ordered. “And don’t slam the trunk. The latch mechanism on the Cadillac is touchy. We don’t need to be finding a mechanic all the way out here.”

Oh god, Colleen flushed, please just drive away. She was thrilled to finally be here and away from California. It’d taken some convincing of her father, but he finally acquiesced. Her high school at home was full of spoiled wannabes looking for their next trendy high or pair of fashionable Jordache jeans. She craved the college-prep environment her new school promised; maybe her new volleyball team would win the Arizona state championship.

Connor removed the bags from the trunk, turned to Colleen, and asked, “What’s your room number?”

“The paper says Up Elliot One if that makes sense?” she said.

“Oh, that’s the best room on campus. Your parents must have done something correct.”

Connor grabbed a pull-wagon and loaded the three bags. Colleen waved good-bye to her parents as they drove away. The footballers remained on the fence, awaiting orders from the coach. Other students continued to find their rooms.

“Mind your step over this irrigation ditch. Easy to fall into,” Connor said. “We need to go across the lawn, behind the next building and up the stairs. This is Girls’ Camp. Dean Miller has me on a stopwatch to get in and out with you. Otherwise, we’d get busted for going out of bounds. Two one-way tickets home.”

“Oh god, I can’t get kicked out,” Colleen blurted. She heard how her declaration came out, too fast, and too much. She steadied herself. “Seriously. If my father had to drive that Cadillac back down the dirt road to collect me, my life would be over.”

Next: Marcus and Leenie arrive in Venice, and Leenie announces to the Grand Canal that they’ve crossed the finish line.

Author Notes:

The Orme School really exists; it’s where I graduated from high school in 1984. There truly is a Quarter Circle V Bar brand hanging from the pole gate, a red barn framing the dirt parking lot, and a split rail fence where the football players hung out. Sadly, the school closed a few years ago just two years short of its centennial birthday.

The first eight chapters of Kindling are free to everyone. Starting with Chapter 9, you must be a paid subscriber. Upgrade today.

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Previously, Marcus and Leenie handed over the keys to their Fresno home, danced one last time to Purple Rain, and head to the airport. Read Chapter 2

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Chapter 3: Scott and Kelly

Sofia, Bulgaria – August 2025

Kelly stretched her legs out over Scott’s into the bus aisle then read the street sign out the window.

Sofia: 150 km

They were about halfway between Bucharest and Sofia. Bulgaria’s rolling green hills, white-painted villages with red tile roofs, and the occasional roadside shrine decorated with plastic flowers passed by. Although she was excited to get to the mountains to hike the 7 Rila Trail outside the city, her mind fixated on how to get her Kindle.

She nibbled on the remaining almond supply. Could they return to Bucharest? All of the travel she’d booked was planned out and non-refundable. Could Scott go ahead on the hike while Kelly circled back alone? She nudged Scott.

“I’m going to call the hotel and confirm they have my Kindle,” Kelly said.

“But then what? Scott asked. “We’re only in Sofia for three days. Overnight shipping would cost a fortune. We’ll just buy you a new one.”

“It’s not just a device, Scott. It has the nick in the corner from Istanbul. All my notes. My screenshots. It’s my baby. I can’t leave it.”

Scott simply didn’t understand her obsession with the device. The Kindle held hundreds of favorite books, three of which she was in various stages of reading.

He found her book reading style inexplicable. “You can only read one at a time, Kelly,” he’d say, which Kelly found completely unreasonable. Different books are for different moods she told him. There was a travel memoir she’d been saving for Greece. She had to find out what happened to the professor in Amazing!, and there was a history of Bulgaria she’d downloaded specifically for this trip.

She could recreate the library via Amazon or through checking them out again via Libby, but she wanted her Kindle back. They had a relationship. This little device held her memory. Without it, she’d forget the quotes, sage advice and notes she’d gathered.

“You’re right about the shipping.” Kelly admitted. “It can’t catch up with us,”

From Sofia they were headed to Greece, then Dublin, jumping over to Maine and back to Texas, where they maintained their U.S. domicile. Their driver’s licenses were expiring, and they had a small window to renew them while in the States. Even if Kelly could convince the hotel to ship the Kindle to Texas, the new tariffs could make the cost more ridiculous.

Kelly decided to sit on the idea for a minute, and instead she logged into Facebook. Her Nomad Life group always needed her attention. Bots spammed the posts and new Nomad Curious followers asked questions hourly. She couldn’t leave the community she’d built alone for long.

“Remember Suzannah from South Africa? She’s asking about the ferry from Naples to Sicily. She wants to know if the rooms have shampoo. Didn’t the Singhs do that trip last year?” Kelly mumbled out loud as she sped through the comments in the group. Scott knew he didn’t need to answer. Kelly tagged Jiya Singh, hoping she’d help Suzannah quickly.

While online, Kelly reviewed the sales of her latest book on Amazon. Their global footprint offered a perfect solution for production and distribution, even if she wasn’t a fan of the platform. Sales were growing. While there, an ad for a new Kindle popped up.

She snickered. How did Amazon know? She didn’t need the answer. A new Kindle would cost over $150. Frustrated, she returned to her Facebook group.

A Time Capsule picture from ten years ago popped up: her friends, Jeffrey and Loretta, sitting at their country club enjoying a beverage. They had purchased a patio home in Florida. His retirement goal was to shoot a golf game score lower than his age. He retired one week after that picture, then he died the following week.

Kelly showed the picture to Scott. “Wow. Ten years ago. His funeral definitely triggered us. Rest in peace dear friend,” Kelly said as Scott continued listening to his concert. He nodded.

They had been like Jeffrey and Loretta. Working hard all year, gobbling up their two measly weeks of vacation, often with laptops in tow. Instead of playing golf, which never appealed to Kelly, they traveled. One week in Hawaii then another in Cabo. Or a week zipping through Paris and then a second in Rome. They’d return home exhausted.

Jeffrey’s death focused Kelly on the intention of joy, happiness and time. What would retirement look like for them? How could they make travel thrilling and not exhausting?

The more Kelly talked to Scott about traveling in retirement, the more the excitement built. Scott first said that there had to be a better way to travel than going back and forth to their house. They’d reviewed different ways to see the world; living on cruise ships, buying time shares, getting round-the-world tickets. None of these modes seemed to fit. When they stumbled upon the nomad style of moving slowly throughout the world as minimalists, their retirement ideas solidified.

Jeffrey and Loretta never got to retirement, thought Kelly as she touched Jeffrey’s face on the screen.

A red notification popped up on her phone taking her to the weekly Saturday post in her Nomad Life group. Everyone offered where they would be for the next two weeks. Tokyo, Bangkok, Seattle…

Kelly got an idea. “Scott.”

He pulled an earbud out of his ear. “Yes?”

“I think I know how to get my Kindle back.”

“Do tell.”

“What if I use my Nomad Life Facebook group? There are so many nomads there, traveling around the world, asking questions. Sharing logistics. People are really engaged about Nomad Life. I’m going to post the problem. Maybe I can engineer a series of hand-offs across geography and the members’ movements,” Kelly said.

“No one’s gonna do that. Why would they?”

“But everyone’s so helpful to everyone else. Why wouldn’t they want to help me? There’s bound to be a few who will be happy to jump in.”

Scott pondered the idea, then his eyes lit up. “I’m going to create a spreadsheet and call it ‘Kindle Relay.’ Let’s make it work.” He opened a new window on his computer.

Kelly loved a long shot. Being small and lightweight, a Kindle didn’t seem too much to carry and asking fellow Nomads to add the small device to their backpacks didn’t seem too extreme.

Kelly started a new post in her group.

Help! I left my Kindle in Bucharest, and I want to get it back! By chance is there someone going from Bucharest to Sofia? Or Greece? Dublin? Texas? I’m hoping the Nomad Life Network can help me get my favorite thing back into my hands. It’d be impossible to ship it ($$$), so I’m hoping a good old hand-off relay will save the day.

Who wants to help me get my Kindle back?

Kelly showed Scott the post.

He had the expression he got when he was calculating odds. He wasn’t pessimistic exactly, more a realist. Kelly looked at the spreadsheet he was forming on his computer.

“You’re asking strangers on the internet to hand-deliver your personal property across multiple countries,” he said.

“Correction: I’m asking fellow Nomads to do a favor for the person who runs their community.”

“That’s better. What if nobody’s going the right direction?”

“Then I buy a new Kindle in Texas and be really sad for a week.”

He considered this. “The group has what, 1000 members?”

“4000.”

“Those aren’t great odds. But you’re like a heat-seeking missile when you have a goal. I’m here to help wherever you need it,” he said, adding another column on the spreadsheet called, “Current Location.”

That was Scott’s version of optimism. She’d take it.

Sofia: 100 km

Next: we jump back to 1982, where Colleen has just arrived at an Arizona boarding school.

Author Notes:

I actually priced the shipping charges. They weren’t bad; about $75. But the shipper just wasn’t a reliable option. DHL and FedEx weren’t available. We’d have to rely on a Romanian shipper to transport the Kindle to Bulgaria in three days. They said they could probably do it, but I wasn’t willing to waste $75 on a maybe.

The first eight chapters of Kindling are free to everyone. Starting with Chapter 9, you must be a paid subscriber. Upgrade today.

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Previously, Kelly realised she’d left her Kindle with its 733 irreplaceable notes for her next book behind in Bucharest. The bus was already rolling south. Read Chapter 1.

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Chapter 2: Marcus and Leenie

Fresno, California — July 2025

Leenie danced around the worn beige carpet of their bedroom, laughing as she glanced one last time at the family photos of the six of them. Their entire life displayed in pictures across the forty-year old dresser. Her mother glowing with the first grandbaby, husband Marcus regal and steady, lighting the seventh candle of the family’s Kinara, her beaming with her Enology Certificate she’d gotten at Fresno State, the four kids arranged in a human pyramid with the littlest one crowning the top.

She placed the framed shots in the box she’d labeled for Marcus, Jr. She’d drop the mementos off with her oldest later that afternoon, give her corkscrew collection to their middle daughter, and pass off her crock-pot to the youngest. Sadly, none of them wanted the heavy heirlooms, like the china set and the dining room table. They didn’t have room in their lives for the weights of the past. But Leenie kept dancing.

“Crank it up!” yelled Marcus from the hallway.

Prince’s Purple Rain filled the empty spaces in the bedroom as Marcus played licks on his air guitar, shooting Leenie a sultry look. Their wedding song still got their groove moving.

Next week, an Estate Agent would sell forty years of accumulated life to the highest bidder. Their movement to housefree living would be complete.

“Look at this picture of Casey,” Leenie said. “Tiny hands, giant attitude. A tornado. She nearly finished me.”

“I remember that day well,” said Marcus. “She was the grand finale, baby. My heart couldn’t take another nine months of you and the doctors duking it out.” Marcus embraced her in a two-step around the bed. “Twenty-one years later, and you’re still fighting.” He let her go, weaving and bobbing a boxing stance.

Leenie twirled away from him, heading to the bathroom to dispose of the cleaning items underneath the sink. “Don’t throw those out,” yelled Marcus. “The Estate Agent said they’d sell everything, including the half bottles of Windex. That’s fifty cents towards our next bottle of Bordeaux in France!”

Over the next few days, Marcus and Leenie sorted, finalized and packed. They’d leave the house to the realtor to finish the sale and to rid the place of remaining household goods. Leenie refused to get a storage unit—it was just a house to pay rent on and not live in. She wanted to be carefree, storage-unit free, and housefree as they headed out to their life of full-time travel. A lifetime of thinking about it and three years of planning for it; the time had arrived.

On departure day, Marcus and Leenie stood on their doorstep, thinking back to when they’d moved in with the four kids in tow. Leenie caught Marcus eyeing the tree swing. “Two fat lips, one broken arm. The kids loved that swing,” he said. “The Emergency Room nurses knew us by our first names.”

“We were definitely the Kool-Aid house. All the neighborhood kids came here. I loved that,” Leenie said. “We kept the peanut butter and jelly companies in business.”

Their real estate agent, Sarah, pulled up in her Tesla, phone in hand, hair wind-blown. She stepped out of the car. “Y’all ready?” Sarah asked, coming up the porch steps. Her quick exit from the car disproved her eighty years of age.

“I’m not sure if ‘ready’ is the correct word,” Leenie said as felt a sharp pang of guilt.

“Sure it is!” Sarah said.

Leenie continued, “It’s not easy leaving a house of memories. We’ve had a lot of life here. And the kids…the kids are kinda upset with us.”

“Why?” asked Sarah. She turned to Marcus. “My kids loved you guys, coach. The entire neighborhood grew up with your whole family. We soccer’ed together. We babysat together. We trained dogs together.”

“I think they want the anchor to stay put,” said Leenie, her voice small. “They don’t quite understand what we’re doing. Selling all of our stuff. What if they need us and we’re an ocean away? I’m feeling guilty.”

“Go live your dreams.” Sarah said as she approached them on the steps. “This is your life! You need to spend your kids’ inheritance. You’ve earned it!”

“Hey, hon, look at me,” urged Marcus. “We’re doing this. We’ve homeschooled four kids. Degrees hanging on the wall. It’s our time. The training wheels are off. It’s no surprise to them. They’re just pushing your buttons a bit. Let’s go find us. The house. The house is just stuff.” He pointed to his heart. Leenie turned to face him. “Our memories are here. We’ll huddle the kids up on Facetime if we need to.”

Leenie leaned into him. “Ha. Yes, we’ll do that. But I do need them to know I love them.”

“If they don’t know you love them by now, we’ve both done something wrong,” said Marcus.

Sarah stood on the bottom step looking up at them. “I’ve seen many people leave their homes. Sometimes it’s for sad reasons. Other times, it’s financial. Most of the time, it’s good. But for you, this is fantastic! Now stop that moping and give me those keys. It’s time for you to get out of here!”

“You’re a good friend, Sarah. Put someone good in here, will ya? Knowing we’ve left our neighbors with great people makes this easier.”

“I promise.” She put her hand out.

They looked at their sets of house keys for the last time, finally dropping them into Sarah’s hand. The Uber pulled up to take them to the hotel.

Leenie turned to Marcus. “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we? All the memories...” A tear fell.

“Baby. Don’t be getting any doubts now. This was your playbook from the start. We’re ready. The kids are ready. They know they’re ready. No lollygagging. Or doubting.” He nodded toward Sarah. “Sarah’s even ready. Let’s roll,” Marcus said.

Leenie grabbed the handles of their carry-ons while Marcus picked up their backpacks. They put them in the trunk of the waiting taxi, got in the car, and turned to see the house for the last time. Marcus rolled down the window. Leenie reached across Marcus to see Sarah and the house one more time. They both reached out and waved.

“Bon voyage, dear friends,” Sarah said as the Uber drove off to take them to the hotel. Their house disappeared as the driver turned left.

Next: We’re back with Kelly and Scott in Bucharest, one day before the bus, for the anniversary lunch where a question about next year begins to surface.

Author Notes:

The truth: We really had an Estate Sale. In one weekend, everything we owned disappeared in the backs of buyers’ cars. It was a great way to empty the house; no need for hundreds of Facebook Marketplace transactions.

The first eight chapters of Kindling are free to everyone. Starting with Chapter 9, you must be a paid subscriber. Upgrade today.

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Chapter 1: Scott and Kelly

Bucharest, Romania — August 2025

Kelly woke at sunrise with a nagging feeling she’d made a mistake. Scott, her husband, snuggled up to her side, the silky sheets gently brushing against her cheeks. She’d been stirring all night. Quietly, she reached for her phone to check the digital calendar that they shared. 8:00 PM: Bus to Sofia from the Bucharest bus station.

Something wasn’t right.

She scrolled through her email folder called “Tickets” to check the e-tickets directly; flights to Istanbul, trains to Amsterdam, museum entries for the Louvre. I’ve got to come up with a better system for storing tickets, she thought. She found the Flixbus tickets for Sofia.

Oh crap. She cringed, springing upright, knocking Scott to his back.

The departure time read 8:00 AM. Not 8:00 PM. Their bus was leaving in fifty-five minutes.

“Scott, honey, wake up! Wake up!” Kelly jostled him. “We need to go! The bus leaves at 8 AM!”

“What? You said the tickets were for tonight.”

“I screwed up on the military time. The bus leaves this morning,” Kelly said as she stood up, pulling her phone charger from the wall.

Scott bolted from bed, brushed his teeth, started the instant kettle, and gathered his things. Kelly frantically re-assembled her ditty bag, pulled her dirty clothes together, and stuffed them into her carry-on.

The bus station was too far to walk with the time they had remaining. Kelly checked Uber. A ride would get them there in forty minutes.

Scott shoved the rest of his stuff into his carry-on. Kelly coiled cords into her backpack. She tied her shoes; Scott filled to-go cups with tea.

“Got everything?” Kelly asked.

He took one last look around the room as Kelly started down the steps. “Yeah, let’s go,” Scott said as he pulled the door to their room closed.

They waved a quick goodbye to their hosts and dashed outside to the waiting Uber. We’ve packed a million times over the past five years, Kelly thought. Everything had clicked together like the last pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

They threw everything they owned—forty pounds total between the two of them across their individual carry-ons—into the trunk of the silver Dacia, slid into the backseat, then took a breath. Kelly checked the app. Arrival: 7:52.

She dug some almonds out of her backpack. Scott shined a green apple on the tail of his shirt and handed the fruit to her, then polished a second one for himself. They ate their improvised breakfast in the Bucharest morning traffic as the city blurred past. Five years of this, Kelly thought. Five years of figuring it out.

Their life prior to launching as full-time travelers had been routine. Boring, really. Same people. Same dinners. Same parks. But this life, filled with a different set of decisions every day, thrilled Kelly, although sometimes the constant change was downright hard. It caused friction, too. Scott had always been way too meticulous for her wing-it attitude, but somehow, they made the symphony of daily decisions work.

The diesel smoke from the idling bus fumed the air as they boarded to Sofia at 7:59. The door hissed when it closed. The driver started rolling. They picked up their company-provided bottles of water and bags of sour-cream-flavored crackers from the seat behind the driver, walked down the aisle past other travelers and found the last two seats. Wide, comfortable, smelling slightly of old upholstery. Large picture windows showed the outskirts of Bucharest passing by.

“I’m sorry,” Kelly said as she leaned her head on Scott’s shoulder. “The tickets said 8:00, which of course, I translated as 8:00. But I put it on the calendar as PM rather than AM. I can’t believe I did that AGAIN. Five years on the road and my brain still reads 8:00 and assumes evening.”

“Remember. Rule one of travel day. No blaming. We’re in the seats, the luggage is secure, the error is over. Let it go. No harm. All good,” Scott said, reassuring Kelly.

They settled into their long bus ride south. The smooth roads lulled them to relax from the hectic morning. Built-in screens allowed them to connect their phones to watch videos via the bus’s wifi. While Scott queued up his favorite 1974 Grateful Dead concert, Kelly decided to read. She couldn’t wait to dive into chapter fifteen of Kate Evans’ new novel, Amazing!. She was a fantastic storyteller.

Kelly reached into the back pocket of her backpack, a move she’d done hundreds of times. Yet instead of the hard plastic of her e-reader, she felt nylon.

“Oh no.” Kelly said as she frantically searched everywhere in her backpack. She pulled out her extra change of clothes, her computer, her pouch of liquids. She unzipped every pocket. She slid her hand into the computer sleeve of her backpack again.

“Dammit. Dammit.” She paled.

“What’s wrong?” Scott asked.

“I can’t believe this. Do you have my Kindle? Tell me you grabbed it. Please tell me you did a secondary sweep.”

“Let me check.” He scrambled through his backpack.

Kelly frantically scanned her brain, replaying their chaotic departure from the hotel. Usually, her Kindle was at her bedside in the morning because she liked to read before falling asleep. Did she miss checking the bedside table? Had she read last night? Where did she leave it?

“Sorry, I don’t have it.”

“It must have fallen between the dresser and the bed in our haste to pack,” said Kelly. She leaned back in the chair, knocking her head against the seat rest.

Her stomach flip-flopped.

“I’ve left my Kindle in the hotel. It’s my brain. Oh God, Scott. It’s gone. It has everything. This is awful. Scott, I can’t lose my Kindle. I can’t.”

She scanned its contents in her mind. Her library history. That was replaceable. Her highlights in the margins of books she loved. She could live without them. Even the screenshots of travel tips she used for her Nomad Life Facebook Group. But her anxiety screamed about the seven hundred and thirty-three written notes for her next book. Scribbled in the wee hours of the morning, on trains to Vietnam and cruises to New Zealand. None of them were backed up.

None of them.

Sofia: 380 km read the highway sign.

Next: We meet Marcus and Leenie, a couple in Fresno who are about to hand over the keys to forty years of family life and discover what freedom actually feels like.

Author Notes:

The truth: I left my Kindle in the Bucharest hotel, and I really did discover its omission while on the bus to Sofia. But the morning hadn’t been hectic. Steve and I had taken a leisurely ride to the bus/train station. I found the posted train schedule (in picture above) mesmerizing. I love a train schedule; many in Europe are digital, flipping through times and destinations every few seconds. But this analog one, swoon! It reminds me of a card catalog in a library. So classic. Make sure you stop in the Bucharest station (north) to see it.

What have you left behind? Tell me how you recovered it.

Now, we’ve got to pick the cover. Remember the marketing copy? It’s right here in case you’ve forgotten.

Here are the book covers. These are just drafts. We’ll narrow these down to two, and then I’ll work with the designer to incorporate feedback on the two designs to get it down to one. Then, we’ll pick the final. Thanks for being part of the Kindling Team!

Under each cover is a number. In the poll, just pick the number you like. Again, only paid subscribers can vote on the cover. Sorry for the blur—gotta protect the copyrights of the artists.

Here are the covers:

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Below, I’ll ask you to vote on a title for the book. The title is not UNTITLED.

Here is the draft of the marketing piece for the book. Vote below.

UNTITLED A Novel — Based on a True Story

When Kelly leaves her Kindle on a bus in Bucharest, she has two problems. The first is practical: 733 irreplaceable notes for the travel memoir she has been writing for five years. The second is something she doesn’t yet understand: she has just set eleven lives in motion.

Through the Nomad Life Facebook group — a community of full-time travelers scattered across the globe — Kelly launches a relay. City by city, stranger by stranger, the device makes its way back to her across Europe. And as it passes through each pair of hands, it carries more than Kelly’s notes. It carries the weight of every life it touches.

There’s Marcus, a retired coach from Fresno who has been composing limericks since his wedding day and has traveled to Ireland specifically to read one to people who will understand. His wife Leenie, who has researched every detail of their nomadic retirement, is quietly terrified it won’t be enough for him and them.

There’s Grazia, a Cuban-American engineer who left Havana at the age of five on an Operation Pedro Pan flight and has spent sixty years searching. And Dave, twenty-seven years sober, riding a Harley through Slovakia looking for the farmhouse in a photograph he found in his dead mother’s bedside drawer.

There’s George, a Mexican-American widower making a Beatles pilgrimage through Liverpool, who knows he is really saying goodbye to the woman he lost and a father he never thanked.

And Ari, a former film production executive and LGTBQI advocate who has spent three years in European archives searching for the great-aunt her family has refused to name for eighty years. Plus there’s RJ, who finds connection with Ari across generations of queer pride.

And there’s Connor — an Irish history teacher who left County Limerick at thirteen and has not been back in forty-five years. And his high school sweetheart Colleen, who needs to return to Ireland to find the family she didn’t know she had.

All of them are heading, without knowing it, toward a pub in Croom, County Limerick. Toward a stage. Toward each other. Toward the things they have been carrying across borders for decades.

UNTITLED is upmarket ensemble fiction for readers who loved The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and 84, Charing Cross Road — warm, specific, historically grounded, and deeply researched across eight countries.

Readers of this book have described it as: a book club novel with a traveler’s pace, a love letter to full-time travel, a story about the histories we inherit and the distances we put between ourselves and home.

Perfect for: book clubs, fans of ensemble literary fiction, upmarket women’s fiction readers, travelers, anyone who has ever left something behind they couldn’t replace.

Themes: full-time travel and nomadic life, found family, Cuban diaspora and Operation Pedro Pan, Irish history and the Great Hunger, LGBTQ+ history and the Nazi occupation of Jersey, sobriety and recovery, grief and forgiveness, genealogy, music and memory, the Beatles.

Based on a true story.

Thanks for getting this far! Now, let’s vote on the Title of this book/series. Paid subscribers get to vote below.

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