CHAPTER 8 – The Bus Schedule

  By Thursday, the sleeping bag had found its place beside the map under the loose floorboard, and the backpack leaned in the corner like a quiet companion, growing heavier with purpose. But something else heavy pressed against Fleta’s thoughts now—something she could no longer ignore.

  She had solved the gear problem, at least enough to start. But she still didn’t know how to leave Kansas.

  Walking out of Chetopa wasn’t an option. She’d be spotted before she even reached the highway. Hitchhiking felt dangerous. Asking someone for a ride felt even more dangerous.

  Which left one possibility: the bus.

  Chetopa didn’t have its own station, but Oswego—fifteen minutes north—did. She’d checked once on a field trip; she remembered the red benches, the dusty vending machine, and the timetable pinned to the wall with a crooked thumbtack.

  She needed that timetable.

  After school, she didn’t go home. Instead, she walked in the opposite direction, heading toward the corner grocery store. It wasn’t big, but it had a wall near the entrance where locals posted flyers for yard sales, missing pets, and community events. And sometimes, bus schedules.

  She pushed open the door. A wave of cool air and the smell of oranges rolled toward her. Mr. Patel nodded from behind the counter, too busy ringing up a customer to say much.

  Fleta hurried to the bulletin board.

  Her pulse quickened—there it was. A paper printed in blue ink:

  OSWEGO REGIONAL BUS LINES — SUMMER ROUTES

  Her fingers trembled slightly as she scanned the page.

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  Oswego → Joplin → Springfield → Memphis → Atlanta

  Atlanta. Her breath caught.

  Atlanta was close to Georgia. Close to the start of the Appalachian Trail. The idea settled into her bones like warm sunlight.

  The times were listed in columns. One bus left Oswego every Saturday morning at 6:15 AM.

  If she could get to Oswego by then—if she could slip out while her stepfather was at work and her mother was sleeping—she could make it.

  She pulled her notebook from her backpack, pretending to look like she was copying down homework. The store was quiet; nobody paid attention to a small girl scribbling on scrap paper.

  She wrote quickly:

  Bus from Oswego Saturday – 6:15 AM To Joplin → Springfield → Memphis → Atlanta Fare: $23

  Twenty?three dollars. Her stomach tightened.

  It was more than she wanted to spend so early in the journey, but it was also her only clear road out. And she had forty left. Enough, if she was careful.

  She copied the entire schedule, tore out the page neatly, and slid it into her pocket.

  As she turned, Mr. Patel called softly, “Need help finding something, Fleta?”

  She smiled a little—small, polite. “Just looking.”

  He nodded, and she walked quickly out of the store. The sunlight felt sharper now, the air buzzing around her like the whole town knew she was planning something enormous.

  When she got home, the house was noisy—her stepfather in a foul mood, her mother trying to calm him. Fleta slipped past them like smoke, invisible by necessity.

  In her room, she shut the door, locked it quietly, and pulled out her map. She laid the copied bus schedule beside it.

  The journey started to take shape:

  Chetopa → Oswego → Atlanta → Springer Mountain Then: The Trail

  She wrote it in her notebook in careful letters, a timeline more than a plan.

  Tomorrow she’d figure out how to get to Oswego without attracting attention. Tomorrow she’d check what time her stepfather left on Saturdays. Tomorrow she’d think through all the pieces she had to move quietly, precisely, perfectly.

  But tonight?

  Tonight she pressed her hand against the map, fingertips tracing the white line of the Appalachian Trail.

  She whispered the words like a vow:

  “I’m getting closer.”