I run.
And run.
And run.
And when the sun finally goes down hours later, I stop in an alleyway at the back of a restaurant in town and curl up in the tossed cardboard boxes. The letter opener is still in my shaking hand. Vomit is caked on my shirt. I wake at some point when the sky outside is pitch black, and shoo a stray cat away from my dirty shirt.
And the whole time, I don’t stop crying.
I want my mom.
I want Libby.
I want to go home.