Briana shifted gears and pressed harder on the gas. Her jeep shot forward through the underbrush that had grown since the last time she'd made this trek.

"Don't go out there in that old thing," her mother always said. "It isn't an off-road vehicle!"

...well, technically this was a road. And Briana was in no mood to care.

The clouds that had started to gather after the funeral finally lived up to their promise and broke open, dumping sheets of water that poured relentlessly over her windshield and turned the dirt road to mud beneath her tires. She could see her father's cabin through the bare trees whose leaves had fallen under the onslaught of October rain; the porch light cast a small circle of welcoming yellow light. She must have forgotten to turn it off when she'd left.

Her tires screeched as she hit the brakes and cut the engine abruptly, coming to a halt in front of the little four-room house. Rain drummed on the roof as she stared at it.

The emptiness of the moment was almost too much to handle. She couldn't lie to herself; she knew she had been half-expecting her dad to be waiting in the door, huddled away from the rain with a hoodie, smiling his great big "There's my girl" smile that made his eyes crinkle up in the corners, ready to unpack her bags from the back...

The wheel protested its treatment with a plastic-y creak and she let it go before she broke something in her hand. Popping the door open and jumping out, she slammed it quite a bit harder than she had originally intended and dashed from the cover of her car to the front door of the cabin.

Here, at least, one thing hadn't changed. As the door opened readily beneath her hand, she braced herself for the enthusiastic tackle-greetings of two Newfoundlands who had never quite grasped the fact that they were heavier than she was.

"Ooof!"

She hadn't braced well enough, Briana realized hazily, and now she was down and down hard, her lungs momentarily frozen in shock. "Yes," she assured the two eager doggy faces in front of her when she had enough air to talk again, "I love you too, now get off."

Shoving occupied the next several moments until Bear and Coop backed off and sat down a few feet away, the picture of canine innocence. For the first time in days, Briana laughed. She had to—they had the stupidest, silliest faces she'd ever seen, a cross between "Huh?" and "We didn't do it," and she couldn't help it any longer. She had to laugh, or she would... or she was going to...

The sobs started to come before she could get a hold of herself. Laughter turned to tears in an instant, and she grabbed onto Bear before she lost control completely.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whispered into his fur. He, sweet wonderful dog that he was, just rested his great head gently in her lap and let her cry brokenly against him. Coop whined and looked on, his tail thumping several abortive wags against the floor, as if he were trying to cheer her up.

It was hard to look up again, because the boxes gave silent testament. Her aunts and uncle had been here before, but they hadn't brought anything away with them."Take what you want. We'll take the rest."

Briana sighed heavily into Bear's shoulder, wiped the remnants of her tears away, and pulled the nearest box over to her. It was a box of old sports stuff: trophies, medals, a baseball glove or two, and down at the bottom, her dad's collection of baseball cards. She grabbed an empty box from the kitchen and marked it for Henry, then put the cards inside. Her little cousin would go absolutely nuts over them.

She was halfway through sorting through his old clothes, deciding which ones to give away and which she'd like to keep, when her phone rang. Folding the U Mass sweatshirt carefully and putting it in the pile of things she was going to keep, she let the song reach the third or fourth line before she flipped the phone open and put it up to her ear. "Hello?"

"Briana Reinette King, what in the hell do you think you're doing?"

Deciding that answering the question as it had been asked would probably get her into worse trouble than she was already in, Briana shifted the phone to her other ear and went back to folding. "Hi, Mom."

Renee Worthington was in no mood for idle chitchat. "Where are you?"

Again, "Where do you think?" was probably not the best way to answer. "I'm fine, Mom," Briana answered instead. "I'm at Dad's cabin."

"That's ridiculous, it's absolutely pouring outside. Come back to the hotel this instant."

Briana let silence crackle over the line for a long moment. "You called to yell at me for driving to Dad's house in the rain," she said slowly, "and now you want me to drive back through the rain."

"Don't twist my words, young lady," Renee snapped. "That's not what I meant."

"Then say what you mean!" Coop looked up at the sound of Briana's voice rising. "Why don't you ever say what you mean?" She didn't give her mother time to answer. "You're not upset that I drove in the storm, you're upset that I'm at Dad's."

"Briana—"

Her tears made a reappearance, but this time they were tears of anger, scalding hot and somehow cleansing. "He's dead," she yelled, her voice breaking on the second word. "He's dead, and you don't care. He was your ex-husband, the father of one of your children, and you didn't even cry at his funeral."

"Now listen—"

"No, you listen!" Briana was through listening to her mother try to explain herself. "For once in my life, listen to what I'm saying. I'll come back tomorrow but tonight...leave me alone!"

She slammed the phone shut, stared for an instant at its front screen with the call time blinking, then screamed and hurled it with all her might at the mantelpiece across the room. It hit a framed photograph and a candle-holder in its flight and knocked them both to the ground.

Only my mother could pack that much irritation into a one-minute call...

Then she saw it, lying on the mantel where it must have been all the time, hidden until the picture fell. From her phone's speaker came the quasi-romantic crooning of Sting, but Briana ignored the sound in favor of staring at the plain white envelope. It was labeled with one word in heart-wrenchingly familiar handwriting.

Briana

She didn't remember walking over to the fireplace. She must have walked, there was no way she had suddenly gained the ability to teleport, but she didn't remember the journey. She'd been across the room, and now she was here, lifting the envelope in her hands, sliding a finger under the flap...

Her knees made two small thumps as they hit the wood floor. It hurt a little, but she barely noticed. Her heart and mind were completely focused on the page filled partway through with her father's bold letters.

Princess,

Her hands shook as she traced the familiar nickname with her index finger.

I don't know why you're reading this letter. Honestly, I don't. Every year I sit down at my desk and write a new letter to you. Firefighting is a dangerous job—too dangerous—and I have never been able to stand the thought of my last words to you being out of date.

Boring stuff first: everything I own is yours, princess. The cabin and everything inside it, whatever part of the lake rests on my property, the dogs (hiya boys), everything. Do what you want with the house—sell it, keep it, turn it into a strip club (okay, please don't do that last one, your mother would have a coronary.)

Briana put the letter down gently and buried her face in her arms to smother her laughter. Her father's sense of humor was perverse, but wonderful, and it never failed to make her absolutely crack up. She picked the letter back up and smiled again at the evidence of how well he knew her.

Got the laugh out of the way? Good. My Harley is out back. I'd prefer that you kept that and used it as your mode of transportation, if only to see the look on your mother's face when you ride up on it. If not, then give it to your Uncle Edward, he'll take good care of it.

As she opened the second fold of the letter, something slipped out and fell with a clink to the floor. It spun twice, then promptly rolled under the couch. Briana dropped to the floor and peered underneath, spotting the thing by its glitter in the dim light. The moment she picked it up, she knew what it was by the way it fit her hand.

A coin.

It was a little bigger than a half dollar, made of some kind of copper-bronze alloy, with a small hole in the top as though it had been worn as a pendant. It was also very old. Most of its markings had been worn down by time so that they were barely distinguishable, but she could see words on either side. This didn't help her much, since they weren't in English—or at least, not any English she had ever seen. She traced the words with her fingernail, flipping the coin over once or twice. Insum on one side. Exsum on the other.

The momentarily forgotten letter in her hand made a rustling noise as she lifted the coin into the light to examine it further. Tucking the coin into her pocket for later, she turned to finish reading.

I love you, sweetheart. I say it every time I see you, and every time we hang up, and I'll keep saying it every day for the rest of my existence. And because I love you so much, here is the last piece of advice I'm going to give you.

Belong to your life. Understand the difference between breathing and living and ride life to its fullest. Own your soul. When it comes to making decisions, forget your mother, your step-father, your friends, forget even me and follow your heart.

The last little bit of myself I can give you is probably in your hand right now. That coin is very old and very, very special, Princess. It was your great-grandfather's originally. He gave it to your grandmother, she gave it to me, and now I'm giving it to you. If you go in the attic, there's probably still the chain she used to wear it on in her old jewelry box. It's yours now. Keep it safe, and always close to your heart.

Live long and proud, and know I will always love you.

            Dad

Briana folded the letter and pressed a kiss to the paper, then got up and searched out the boxes her uncle had brought down from the attic. Sure enough, a thin gold chain made up of tiny links was inside the old jewelry box, right next to a signet ring bearing a large and ornate K. Briana threaded the chain through the hole, through which it fit perfectly, and slid it over her head. After studying the coin for a long moment, she tucked it inside her shirt, where it settled comfortably between her breasts as though it had always been there.

Time for good little princesses to be in bed...

Briana wiped away one last tear at the thought of her father's favorite goodnight to her and went into his bedroom. Bear and Coop followed her in and waited until she had curled up in the bed before jumping up and making a queen-size bed a very tight squeeze indeed. Briana grinned and stroked their large, furry heads. "Good boys," she said. "Sleep well."

She reached over to flick off the light, cuddled down into the old shirt of her father's that she was wearing as a nightgown, and for the first time in days slipped into complete, sanity-restoring rest.

Briana dreamed strange dreams that night.

Usually her dreams were short and choppy, filled with recognizable people and places, snapping swiftly from one humorously improbable situation to another. But these dreams slid from one to another fluidly, with no break points. They were confusing at best, disturbing at worst, full of men in blue and black uniforms shouting at her, asking her name, calling out to her, "Your name is Briana Worthington?"

"No!" she protested. "No, that's not me!"

"Your name is Briana Worthington?"

"That's not me! You've got the wrong person!"

"Your name is Briana Worthington?"

"Let go of me!"

And she remembered fighting back against restraining hands, flailing, trying to make sense, ripping the arm of her shirt in her haste to break away.

"Your name is Briana Worthington?"

"King! My name is Briana King! Now leave me alone!"

She remembered lashing out, catching one in the nose. He fell away from her, clutching at his face in surprise, and suddenly she was falling as well, falling away and down, falling and falling and...

...waking up.

With a torn sleeve, and with blood on her hands.