CHAPTER 5 – The Backpack

  Fleta hadn’t expected the feeling—this strange mix of nerves and steady determination—as she pushed open the door to the Chetopa Thrift & Second Chance Store the next afternoon. The little bell above the frame jingled weakly, like even it had grown tired of ringing.

  The place smelled like old jackets and warm dust. A box fan hummed in the back, turning the air just enough to keep the room from feeling still. Clothes hung in uneven rows, and tables held piles of mismatched kitchenware. Nothing looked new. Nothing ever did.

  But that was why she was here.

  New wasn’t affordable.

  New wasn’t necessary.

  New wasn’t her style anyway.

  She slipped between two racks of coats, keeping her head down. She came here sometimes for books, but this trip was different—bigger. Today she was hunting for something that could shape her entire plan.

  She needed a backpack.

  Not a school bag that sagged when she put two textbooks in it. Not a purse or a tote bag. Something real. Something meant to carry weight for miles.

  She found the bags near the back of the store, hanging from hooks nailed crookedly along the wall. Most were cheap nylon backpacks with cartoon characters fading on the front. One had a broken zipper; another was missing a strap.

  But then she saw it.

  A faded green pack, large and sturdy, the kind hikers used in the pictures she’d seen. The fabric was worn at the edges, but the frame looked solid. Someone had sewn a patch on one side: a little embroidered mountain. It was frayed, but still recognizable.

  She took it down gently.

  It was heavier than she expected—empty, but heavy in a dependable way. Like it had been somewhere. Done things. Seen weather.

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  A tag dangled from one strap: $4.

  Fleta felt a small spark ignite in her chest.

  She unzipped the top. The inside smelled faintly like cedar and old canvas, a little dusty but clean enough. One of the inner pockets had a tear, but she could fix that. She’d learned to mend things years before she’d learned long division.

  Footsteps approached.

  She froze only for a moment before turning.

  Mrs. Baxter, the owner, stood nearby sorting scarves into a bin. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a loose twist, strands escaping everywhere.

  “You like that old thing?” the woman asked, adjusting her glasses.

  “It’s… nice,” Fleta said cautiously. She didn’t want to sound too eager. That could get her questions she didn’t want to answer.

  Mrs. Baxter nodded. “Came in from an estate sale last week. Surprised no one’s bought it yet. Solid pack.”

  Fleta swallowed. “Does it… does it really cost four dollars?”

  “For you?” Mrs. Baxter smiled. “Three.”

  Fleta blinked.

  “But the tag says—”

  “Three.” The woman winked. “Consider it a clearance special.”

  Fleta’s pulse thudded. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the crumpled bills she’d saved from skipped lunches. Three dollars exactly.

  Mrs. Baxter accepted the money without fuss, rummaged under the counter for a paper receipt, and handed it to her without even asking her name.

  No questions.

  No judgment.

  Just a backpack.

  Fleta slung the pack over her shoulder, testing its weight. It felt right in a way she couldn’t explain. Like the first piece of the trail had finally fallen into place.

  On the walk home, she kept glancing at it—making sure it was real, that she wasn’t imagining the way it rested comfortably against her spine.

  When she reached her room, she shut the door, locked it, and pulled the green pack onto the bed. For a long moment she simply stared at it.

  Then she retrieved her hidden journal and flipped to the prep list.

  Backpack — CHECK.

  She wrote it in capital letters, pressing hard enough that the pen carved slightly into the paper beneath.

  Her first real piece of gear.

  Her first real step.

  She unzipped the main compartment and placed the notebook inside, laying it flat so it wouldn’t bend.

  Tomorrow she would start filling the pack with more.

  Tomorrow she would find something to sleep in.

  Something to keep her dry.

  Something to keep her going.

  For now, she sat cross?legged on the bed, her new backpack resting in her lap, the mountain patch on its side catching the soft glow of her desk lamp.

  It felt like she was holding possibility itself.