A holiday ends. The photos go to a folder. The smells, the small fights, the strange breakfast all go nowhere unless something holds them. This is that something.
Four trips fit inside, in a child’s own hand. They plan before. They notice during. They look back, after. Years from now, they will find this on a shelf and remember the bus that broke down, the dog at the gate, the meal they didn’t like. That is the point.