CHAPTER 9 – The Saturday Test

  Saturday morning arrived with a pale, washed-out sky and the sound of her stepfather’s boots scraping across the kitchen floor. Fleta lay still in her bed, eyes open, listening to the familiar rhythm: the fridge door slamming, the muttered cursing, the jingling of keys hitting the counter.

  He always worked half-days on Saturdays.

  Every week.

  Without fail.

  A fact she needed to be absolutely sure of.

  When she heard the front door slam, she counted slowly to thirty, then slipped out of bed. Her mother was asleep on the couch again, one arm hanging over the side, fingers touching the floor.

  Fleta moved lightly, the way she’d learned over years of necessity. She poured a little cereal into a bowl and sat quietly at the table, listening for the sound of a truck returning.

  Nothing.

  At 8:15, she checked the window. Still no sign.

  Good.

  Consistent.

  Predictable.

  It wasn’t enough to plan an escape, but it was the foundation she needed.

  Around nine, her mother woke with a groan. “You going somewhere today?” she asked groggily, rubbing her temples.

  “Library,” Fleta said quickly, grabbing her backpack. “School project.”

  Her mother nodded, barely awake. “Be home by dinner.”

  Fleta stepped outside into the warm air, her pulse steady but high. Today wasn’t the real escape—she wasn’t leaving yet—but she needed to practice. She needed to know she could reach Oswego on her own, quietly, without suspicion.

  A test run.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  She walked to the edge of town, past the grain silos and the cracked sidewalk, until she reached the old pedestrian bridge that crossed the small creek. From there, a dirt road split off—the road that eventually curved toward Route 59.

  She followed it.

  Birds called from the trees. Grasshoppers flicked past her feet. The world felt bigger here, open and unobserved.

  Every few minutes she checked her watch.

  Every step mattered today.

  The walk to Oswego wasn’t short—it took nearly forty minutes before she reached the town’s outskirts. Her legs burned a little, but it felt good. A preview of the miles she’d someday walk in the mountains.

  She stopped at the top of a slight hill.

  The bus station lay ahead: small, square, with a faded awning and two red benches out front. A soda machine buzzed beside the door, its light flickering.

  She walked closer, heart beating faster as if she were already boarding.

  Inside, the building smelled like old coffee and lemon cleaner. A woman behind the counter looked up briefly but didn’t speak. Only one other person sat waiting, an older man reading a newspaper.

  Fleta scanned the wall.

  There it was.

  The route map.

  The price chart.

  The Saturday schedule.

  6:15 AM departure.

  On time every week, according to the handwritten note pinned beside it.

  She approached the vending machine and pretended to study the snacks while she memorized everything. The building was so quiet she could hear the old man turning pages.

  This was real.

  Possible.

  Close.

  She stepped back outside, her breath catching in her throat—not from fear, but from the realization that she could do it. Really do it.

  All she needed was to reach this place early enough.

  All she needed was to avoid being missed until the bus was long gone.

  She whispered to herself, “I can make it.”

  The walk home was harder. The sun beat down, and the dirt road felt longer than before, but she didn’t mind. She had what she came for. She had knowledge. Timing. A route.

  A plan.

  When she slipped back into the house, her mother was folding laundry on the couch.

  “Good day at the library?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Fleta said, forcing a small smile. “Got everything done.”

  Her mother nodded, not noticing the dust on her daughter’s shoes or the small sunburn forming on her arms.

  Later, in her room, Fleta added a new heading in her notebook:

  OSWEGO TEST — SUCCESS.

  Below it, she wrote:

  Time to station: 38 minutes

  Likely unnoticed leaving house before dawn

  Need to pack bag night before

  Need food for travel day

  Need to leave no trace behind

  She closed the notebook and tucked it under the floorboard with the map.

  Tonight, she didn’t whisper a promise.

  Tonight, she didn’t map out new fears.

  Tonight, she simply lay back on her pillow and let herself feel something she hadn’t felt in years.

  Readiness.