In the town of Maple Falls, everyone knew that the Ferguson family was the busiest family alive. Not busy like "oh, we have a lot of laundry" busy. Busy like "we haven't eaten dinner together since February, and it is now October" busy.

Faye Ferguson, age eight, stood in the kitchen on Saturday morning staring at the Family Calendar. It was a giant whiteboard crammed with so many colored markers it looked like a rainbow had sneezed on it. Mom had work meetings in blue. Dad had coaching schedules in red. Her older brother, Marcus, had basketball in green. Her older sister, Danielle, had drama club in purple. And Faye's own cycling practice was in orange.

There wasn't a single blank square on the whole month.

Faye's stomach did a little flip—not the fun kind you get on a swing, but the heavy kind you get when something important is slipping away. She missed her family. Not in a dramatic, crying-in-the-rain way. More like she'd forgotten what her dad's laugh sounded like at dinner, or how Marcus always flicked peas at Danielle when Mom wasn't looking.

So, Faye did something bold. She grabbed the red marker and wrote across the entire Saturday column: FERGUSON FAMILY NATURE QUEST — MANDATORY — NO EXCUSES.

Mom appeared first, coffee in hand. "Faye, honey, I have emails to—"

"Mandatory," Faye said, pointing at the board.

Dad wandered in next. "I was going to reorganize the garage—"

"Mandatory," Faye repeated.

Marcus groaned from the hallway. Danielle groaned louder from upstairs, which was impressive since she was two floors away. That girl had serious projection skills from drama club.