Mom said. I groaned. Mom lowered the heat under the spaghetti sauce and ushered DJ and me to the kitchen table. “Spain? Tanzania?” she asked. “What is going on?” “It’s Grandpa’s request,” DJ said, sitting down. “He’s asked me to scatter his ashes from the top of Mount Kilimanjaro.” “You’re going to Africa to climb a mountain on your own?” Mom said. I was glad that DJ had blurted out his task and was now taking the brunt of Mom’s concern. “That’s insane.” “It’s okay,” DJ said calmly. He was always better than me at staying unruffled when talking to Mom. “Grandpa has it all organized. I’ll fly over on my own, but there’s a guide to meet me at the airport and I’ll be escorted on the climb.” I saw Mom flinch at the word climb, but DJ was on it. “Actually, it’s not really a climb, more of a long hike. You just have to take it slowly because of the altitude. And Grandpa’s supplied everything: airline tickets, guides, money, the works.
