Daisy bought some fruit, power bars, beef jerky, a six pack of stout and a carton of American Spirits from the store. She ate her breakfast at a picnic table and watched Bruce drive the Vixen to its new space and then back it into position. Bruce ran Daisy through a tutorial on hooking up the RV to power, sewer, water, cable TV and a propane tank he supplied. It was all simple enough and Daisy caught on quick. Bruce handed her the keys and said he had the title ready to sign over. Daisy said she’d get the money transferred to Bruce’s account later that afternoon.

Over the next three hours, Daisy transferred the rest of Lorna’s possessions from the laundry room into the rig: pots, pans, toaster, cutlery, dish towels, bath towels, throw rugs, throw pillows, cleaning supplies and spices from dill to paprika. But there was more than just the essentials. There were crocheted coasters and porcelain woodland creatures. There was a gilded clock and candles. There were cassette and VHS tapes. There were books, too, Westerns and bodice rippers.

Daisy then ransacked her Volvo for anything she could use in the RV and discovered she had nothing clean to wear except for some red sweats.

Well, Lorna’s clothes were clean, so Daisy picked out a choice lime green and baby blue Western shirt with some exquisite embroidery and put it on over the sweats and felt like a new woman. (Wearing a vintage Western shirt has a tendency to do that.)

Daisy rolled out her sleeping bag on the bed, crawled in, and rolled around like a giggling kid on a camping trip. She thought about sacking out for a few minutes, but there was too much to do and her energy level demanded action. She checked her phone for messages and about a dozen urgently awaited her response, including three from doctors. Daisy didn’t respond. She got up and surveyed her handiwork. At last, the Vixen’s reappointment was complete. Long live Lorna! Daisy sat down on the couch to rest and admire her new home. She fired up a cigarette. Are RVs really a home? she thought. Doesn’t RV stand for recreational vehicle? I’m not going to be vacationing here. A mild panic gripped Daisy, but a long drag and slow exhale calmed her down. Daisy looked again around the Vixen. Something was missing. She couldn’t place it…

It lacked Christmas and Christmas was almost here. What the hell was happening? Daisy hadn’t cared about Christmas. Her favorite Scrooge-like line at work was, “Christmas is shit.” That always busted them up in the operating room.

Daisy raced into town first for groceries and asked a clerk about thrift stores. She got the lowdown and a few minutes later was rummaging through a shop whose proceeds benefited an animal shelter. Half an hour later, Daisy was loading up the Volvo with boxes of lights and decorations, extension cords, power strips, a fake tree, a couple of outdoor plastic Santas, and an all-dog miniature nativity scene that was so bizarre and preposterous that it demanded purchasing. How Daisy was going to display this nativity scene hadn’t yet come to her. But it would. She was on a roll. Rolling

Stepping inside the RV, a 24-footer, Daisy found herself transported to 1986, the year of the Vixen’s birth. The colors were light brown and darker brown. Yellow linen drapes. Plush cream-colored carpeting. A double bed in in the rear, four-person dinette, mini couch, sink, kitchen, shower, a double closet, an overhead 13-inch TV with VCR, a cabinet radio and cassette with four speakers around the rig, the works! And it was spotless, with a slight tinge of cigarette smoke. Lorna must have smoked at some point. Hell yes!

Daisy thought it about the coolest interior space she’d ever seen. What was not to love? Sure, it was small, but what did you really need? Or more importantly, what did you not need? Those questions instantly popped into Daisy’s mind and she started answering them right there.

She whipped out her phone and texted a resignation to her supervisor. She apologized for the short notice but the family emergency (hers) had become much more critical and she had no choice but to help out family (herself).

Daisy made a further inspection of the interior. The bed was a bit lumpy but serviceable. The couch cozy. She turned on the propane of the four-burner stove and it whizzed on. She cranked on the overhead electric heater and it blasted out warmth. She punched on the radio and hit play on the cassette. Out came Dolly Parton! Under the sink, Daisy found a tiny coffeemaker—Lorna’s coffeemaker! No doubt she drank Yuban by the gallon.

I’m living here, thought Daisy. This is going to be my new home.

Daisy bounded out of the Vixen and sprinted to the office. She threw open the door and said to a startled Bruce, “I’ll take it! I can get the money to you later today.”

“I’m asking $7500 for it,” he said.

“Done. Can I move in today?”

“Sure.”

Bruce then went through the various monthly pricing options in the park. Daisy decided she wanted a space near the tent camping areas and fire pits and Bruce said he’d move it right away.

Daisy looked at Bruce with confusion. Then she got it. The Vixen was an RV! It was mobile!

“How does it drive,” she said.

“Absolutely incredible, said Bruce, “and Lorna kept the engine serviced annually, even though the rig never left the park. I think it has less than 25,000 miles on it. It drives like a dream. I’ll show you later.”

“Sounds great. I’m going to load some of Lorna’s clothes into it before you move it,” said Daisy.

“That sounds fine,” said Bruce, and he shook hands with Daisy to seal the deal.

Daisy stepped outside the office and clapped her hands in joy and did a little jig. She figured the cost of the Vixen and three months rent at the park would leave her with a couple thousand bucks. And she had just quit her job.

Oh well, she thought. Time to get to work, whatever that was going to be.

“I see you found Lorna’s clothes,” he said.

“Lorna?” said Daisy.

“She died a week ago here in the park, in her rig. Cancer. I was with her at the end. She’d been here for 15 years, before I bought the place.”

“Did she have any family?”

Daisy thought she was going to cry because she already knew the answer.

“No. Nothing. We put everything in here to give it away. Take what you want. What doesn’t go, I’ll take into town and load up the thrift stores.”

“Do you know anything about her?”

“She was a rodeo queen and champion rider in her 20s and 30s. She used to mention it. But that’s about all I know.”

“Did you find any photographs of her?”

Daisy was desperate to know what Lorna looked like.

“Not a single one.”

“How old was she?”

“I think in her early 80s.”

“Which RV was hers?”

“The Vixen. What a rig that was! They only made them for three years. A total bust. But she kept it up nice.”

Bruce laughed as he said this.

“Can I see it?”

Daisy had no idea why she’d asked this. She just knew there was a real live human story in progress and she had to dive in. She was coming alive with it. Nothing like this ever happened at work. Or maybe it had and she was too fuzzy to notice.

“Sure, it’s unlocked. It’s empty and ready to sell. We’ve got in on Craig’s List. She signed the title over to me. There was no one else. I kind of feel bad taking it.”

“Don’t feel bad Bruce. You were there at the end.”

Bruce merely nodded and went over to the dryer.

Daisy left and headed straight for the Vixen.

Daisy awoke at first light. Rain had stopped. She exhaled and could see her breath. She got out of the Volvo to stretch and smoke and heard two distinct sounds—the churning roar of the ocean and a saxophone playing what she recognized as a Christmas Carol but couldn’t recall its title or any lyrics. Daisy knew the ocean was behind her, but the exact source of the saxophone mystified her. It was apparently coming from one of the rigs and was obviously not a recording. Someone was playing right then! A Christmas carol! Who does that?

Some 30 quail darted across Daisy’s path as she walked to the restroom. A couple gulls flew overhead. She saw morning doves and blackbirds. blue jays and crows. Perched in a shore pine was a chipmunk nibbling what appeared to be a mushroom. A short distance away, two deer bolted past one of the RVs.

“Angels We Have Heard on High.” That was it! Daisy remembered the name of the carol and found herself singing the falalalalalalalalala….gloria chorus in an exaggerated choral voice that made her chuckle.

After using the restroom and washing up, Daisy saw a Beach Access sign and followed it. Not long thereafter, she descended a cliff with the assistance of a rope and landed on a beach populated by thousands upon thousand pieces of driftwood. Daisy walked and walked, never in a straight line. (No one at the beach ever does if you’re experiencing an existential crisis.) She pocketed shells and rocks. She kicked at foam and played with kelp. She breathed in the brine. At one point, Daisy surprised herself by jogging. She’d never jogged in her life. She stopped 75 yards into the jog and lit a cigarette. She smoked and stared at the ocean and saw a tiny boat out to sea. I’m never going back to Coos Bay, she said to herself.She said it twice. It sounded good. It sounded like a damn good country song about a faded, jaded, junky nurse who let it bleed.

After her walk, Daisy grabbed a cup of coffee and some beef jerky from the store and decided to check out the laundry room and lending library for no other reason that she had absolutely nothing to do and was living out of car. Who knows? She might even find a book to read, something she hadn’t done in years.

She opened the door and beheld more of a thrift store than a laundry room or lending library, although a dryer was drying and a white-washed shelf listing at five degrees held an enormous amount of books.

Daisy entered and what struck her first was all the apparel hanging from the exposed overhead pipes. Several rows. About half of it was still covered in dry cleaning bags. Several seconds into her inspection of the apparel, Daisy knew she had stumbled across perhaps the greatest collection of vintage women’s Western wear in the country. Shirts. Skirts. Vests. Boots. Hats. Jackets with fringes all the colors of the rainbow. And here the collection was in an RV park laundry room! For free! Daisy didn’t even wear this kind of fashion. She would now! Yee haw! She ripped off her coat and sneakers and began trying on items as if it was Black Friday. Everything fit perfectly, including a rhinestone-encrusted leather belt with a buckle the size of a dollar bill. The buckle was pewter with an inlaid design colored a shiny gold. The design was of a woman in pigtails wearing a cowboy hat riding a horse. The horse was jumping over a barrel. The text read MOLALLA BUCKEROO CHAMPION.

It dawned upon Daisy that all this fantastic Western wear had belonged to one person and that person was gone. She was unbuckling the belt when Bruce came inside the room.