The sneakers pounded the pavement, ate away at the miles, pushed distance between themselves and the chain link walls of the school yard.

Three hours.

She had three hours until the bell rang, the buses pulled out of the parking lot, the doorbells hummed, the children sat down at their dining room tables to cookies and homework, the parents asked questions and forgot the answers. Three hours, until her own parents began to tap their feet, check their watches, wonder. Four hours, until they figured it out.

The sidewalk slithered through parks and dusty neighborhoods, cactus gardens, swimming pools, faded hotels where faded cars had been left in front of faded, numbered rooms. I could get a room, lock the door. Are eleven year olds allowed to rent rooms? They never teach you about that in school.

The airport was six miles to the left. Could she get a plane ticket without her mother? Probably not. The train station then. She had never been on a train before, but she had an idea that trains were out of fashion, older, less guarded than the shiny metal bird-dragons people preferred nowadays.

An hour and a half left. She pushed open the glass doors and side stepped into the station. The sneakers squeaked on the polished floors. This was definitely not what she had pictured. Movies had made her expect dust and oak and old people, not a bustling modern, chrome garrison.

She pushed past some briefcases and leather shoes, found a line to wait in. She smelled like sweat. She chewed her tongue and crossed her arms, uncrossed them, glanced at the clock, tapped her fingers on her elbows, ruffled the drying money in her pocket, glanced at the clock, glanced over her shoulder at a man in a blue uniform, chewed on her tongue some more.

“I said next, please.”

She jumped at the voice and scooted to the window.

“Can I help you, dear?”

“Umn, yah...” The person's mouth was thin and they had Principal glasses. She couldn't tell if the ticket seller was a man or a woman or a toad.

“What do you want?”

“I want a train ticket.”

The person adjusted their glasses. “A train ticket?”

“That's right.”

“To where?”

“Umn...” She realized she had no idea where she wanted to go, or even where the trains here went to. The clock clucked in disapproval. She decided the ticket seller was probably a toad.

“How old are you?”

“Umn...”

“Where are your parents? Shouldn't you be in school? Listen, I'm going to call security. You can't just wander around places like this. It's dangerous and you're disrupting business.”

“But no! I want a ticket! I have money!” She saw the person reach for a telephone. Electric panic zig zagged up her spine and she ran. She squeaked across the smooth floor, skittered at corners. A blue sign with an arrow read DEPARTURES. She squealed through the glass doors and found herself at the edge of six rows of train tracks.

One metal snake was beginning to turn its wheels. The security man wasn't watching, he was listening to someone scream on a walkie talkie, probably about her. She crunched over gravel, snagged the railing beside the still open train door, cannonballed into the car as wind began to rake its claws through her hair.

Someone was coming down the stairs from the floor above. Frantic but exhilarated, she saw a bathroom to her right, yanked it open, slammed it closed, slid the lock in place.

see next chapter