Wednesday afternoon felt stretched thin, like the world was holding its breath. The clouds were pale and low, hanging over Chetopa as if the sky itself was tired of watching the same sad routines unfold in the same tired houses.
Fleta walked the long way home from school, cutting through the old alley behind Main Street. She didn’t want to risk anyone stopping her or asking why she wasn’t with friends. She needed one last supply run—small things she could hide easily, things no one would notice missing.
Henson’s Grocery was quiet when she slipped inside. The bell on the door gave a weak jingle.
She moved with purpose.
First, the peanut butter—the smallest jar they sold.
Next, two oatmeal packets she could tuck in her hoodie pocket.
Then, a pack of crackers and the cheapest jerky strip hanging on the peg, the kind no one ever bought.
Her total would come to a little over three dollars.
She could manage that.
At the checkout, Mr. Patel scanned her items one by one, not looking suspicious—just tired in the way adults often were.
“You making snacks for school?” he asked casually.
“Yes,” she lied without hesitation.
He bagged the items in a small plastic sack and handed it to her. “See you tomorrow, Fleta.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “See you.”
She walked out, heart pounding, and made for the alley. From there she followed the quiet backstreets until she reached home.
Inside, the house smelled like cigarette smoke and stale coffee. Her mother was asleep on the couch again, one arm over her eyes. Her stepfather wasn’t home yet—thankfully.
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Fleta went straight to her room, locked the door, and unloaded her supplies onto the bed. They looked small, unimpressive, but to her they were survival.
She unzipped her backpack and arranged everything carefully:
- Peanut butter at the bottom
- Oatmeal packets beside her clothes
- Jerky in the front pocket
- Crackers wrapped so they wouldn’t crumble
She closed the pack and sat back, exhaling through her nose.
It was nearly complete.
She checked the envelope again—still forty dollars. Enough for the bus and a little more. Enough to start. Enough to matter.
She lay back on her bed and stared at the map taped above her—Georgia to Maine. A long line. A long chance.
Tomorrow she would decide for certain.
Tomorrow she would choose whether to leave this Saturday… or wait one more week.
A soft knock startled her.
“Fleta?” her mother’s voice drifted through the door—thin, worn. “Can I… can I come in?”
Fleta froze.
This never happened. Her mother rarely asked for permission. She rarely came to her room at all.
Fleta stood and unlocked the door.
Her mother stepped in slowly, eyes red, cheeks hollow. She held a folded towel in her hands, gripping it too tightly.
“You weren’t home when I woke up,” she said quietly. “I got… worried.”
Fleta’s throat tightened. “I was just getting snacks for school.”
Her mother nodded slowly, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time in weeks. Months. “You look different lately,” she murmured. “More… grown.”
Fleta didn’t speak.
Her mother hesitated, then stepped closer and pulled her into a gentle, trembling hug. The kind she didn’t give much anymore. The kind that came too late and too rarely.
Fleta let herself be held—even though the embrace hurt in a way she couldn’t explain.
“I’m sorry,” her mother whispered into her hair. “For everything.”
Fleta swallowed hard. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t.
And they both knew it.
Her mother let go and left the room quietly, wiping her eyes as she closed the door behind her.
Fleta stood there for a long moment after, staring at the knob.
Her pack sat on the floor.
Her map on the wall.
The bus schedule in her notebook.
Connor’s carved wooden figure in her pocket.
Everything was ready.
But now, something new tugged at her chest—something she had tried so hard not to feel.
Guilt.
Love.
Fear of hurting someone she still wanted to save.
She climbed onto her bed, pulled her knees to her chest, and stared at the mountains printed on the map.
She whispered into the quiet room:
“I have to go… even if it breaks something.”
And because no one could hear her except the paper mountains—
She added softly:
“I just hope I’m not too broken to make it.”