CHAPTER 10 – The Box of Clothes

  By Tuesday, Fleta had begun seeing her world differently—not as a cage she was trapped inside, but as a series of small, scattered resources she could gather. Everywhere she went, she looked for what could help her survive the trail.

  Today, she needed clothes.

  Not new ones. Not pretty ones. Just clothes she could walk in for miles, clothes that could handle weather and dirt and sweat. Clothes that wouldn’t fall apart.

  Chetopa Elementary held its annual “Lost and Found Clean?Out” every April—anything left behind for more than a month went into a cardboard box near the cafeteria. After two weeks, whatever was still there got donated or thrown out.

  It was practically a town tradition that the box stayed full.

  Fleta knew because she checked it often, usually for gloves or hats in the winter. Today she scanned it with a different goal.

  The hallway was empty. Lunch had just ended; kids were still outside milling around the playground. Perfect.

  She knelt beside the box.

  Inside was the usual jumble: sweatshirts, mismatched gloves, plastic water bottles, a pair of muddy soccer cleats, and a whole pile of T?shirts that smelled vaguely like gym class no matter how long they’d been sitting.

  She started sorting quietly, listening for footsteps.

  A navy hoodie—too big, but warm.

  Black athletic shorts—no holes.

  A long?sleeve thermal shirt—faded but thick.

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  Wool socks—slightly mismatched, but she didn’t care.

  She hesitated as she pulled out a windbreaker, bright teal with reflective stripes. The zipper worked. The fabric wasn’t torn. It would keep her dry.

  She folded it gently and placed it beside her.

  Her pulse thudded in her ears.

  Taking one item wouldn’t be suspicious. But taking several? She needed to be smart.

  She slipped the thermal shirt and socks into her backpack first. The hoodie went on next—she pulled it over her T?shirt, even though the Kansas hallway felt warm.

  The windbreaker was the hardest. She held it, weighing the risk.

  Then she heard footsteps.

  She shoved the jacket into her bag and zipped it quickly, smoothing her expression just as Principal Larson turned the corner.

  “Fleta?” he asked, adjusting his tie. “You’re inside during recess?”

  “Forgot my book,” she said quickly, pointing vaguely toward the cafeteria. “I thought I left it near the table.”

  He nodded. “Make it quick. Fresh air is good for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He kept walking. His footsteps faded.

  Fleta waited, breath held tight, before stepping away from the box and heading toward the back door. She didn’t run. Running drew attention. She walked with steady, quiet steps until she slipped outside and blended into the edge of the playground crowd.

  Her backpack felt heavier. Not too heavy—just right.

  After school, she went straight home and locked her bedroom door. One by one, she laid everything out on the bed:

  The hoodie.

  The shorts.

  The thermal shirt.

  The socks.

  The teal windbreaker.

  It wasn’t fancy.

  It wasn’t perfect.

  But it was exactly what she needed.

  She added a new line to her notebook:

  Warm clothes — CHECK.

  Her pack was beginning to look like something a real hiker might own. Something that could carry her far beyond Kansas. Something that could follow a white?blazed path through the mountains.

  She folded the clothes tightly and tucked them into the pack, pressing down until the backpack took on a fuller shape.

  Then she sat back and stared at it.

  A thought crept in slowly, the way sunrise creeps over a ridge:

  She was more prepared than unprepared now.

  More ready than not.

  More committed than afraid.

  For the first time, the trail didn’t feel like a dream she whispered into the ceiling at night.

  It felt like a destination.

  Soon.