CHAPTER 13 – The Goodbye on Locust Street
Saturday crept in with a slow, heavy sky—one of those Kansas mornings that felt trapped between seasons, too warm for spring, too restless for summer. Fleta woke before dawn, her chest tight with the weight of something she couldn’t delay any longer.
She had to tell Connor.
Connor Forquer had been her best friend since second grade—the one person in Chetopa who never made her feel small or strange or in the way. He didn’t talk much, didn’t like crowds, and always wore shirts a size too big because he said “tight clothes feel like bees.” He was brilliant in ways most people didn’t see—he could fix any broken toy handed to him and could recite train routes from memory. He understood patterns, logic, and quiet.
And he understood her.
But she couldn’t tell him everything. That wasn’t safe. She couldn’t tell anyone where she was really going. Still, she couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Not to him.
She waited until late morning, then walked to Walnut Street where he lived with his older sister. She found him on the porch, sitting cross?legged on the steps, sorting a stack of baseball cards in strict alphabetical order by team.
Connor looked up when he heard her shoes on the gravel.
“Your steps are heavier than usual,” he said matter?of?factly. “You’re sad.”
Fleta blinked back a sting in her eyes. Connor never made small talk—he went straight to truth.
“Can I sit?” she asked.
He nodded without looking up, still sorting. “You’re leaving.”
Her breath caught. “What makes you think that?”
“You’ve been… different.” He tapped the side of his temple. “Patterns. You’ve been walking alone more. Your bag is heavier. And you’re doing that thing with your hands you do when you’re nervous.”
She looked down. Her fingers were twisting the hem of her shirt.
Connor stopped sorting cards and finally looked at her directly. His eyes were steady, sharp, careful.
“Are you running away?” he asked.
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Fleta swallowed hard. “I… can’t tell you everything.”
“That means yes,” he said simply.
She looked at him helplessly. “Connor—”
“Are you in danger?” he asked quietly.
She hesitated. “I won’t be… once I go.”
He nodded like this made perfect sense. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Promise?” she whispered.
“On my model train collection,” he said—the highest oath he could give.
She sat beside him on the step, the porch wood warm beneath them. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. A cicada buzzed in a nearby tree. A car passed in the distance.
Finally, Fleta said, “I wanted to say goodbye.”
Connor’s sorting stopped again. His fingers hovered over a card as if it suddenly weighed too much.
“Goodbye forever?” he asked.
She felt tears sting her eyes. “I hope not.”
Connor’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I don’t like goodbyes. They feel… too big.”
“I know.”
He looked down at his hands. “Will you be… okay?”
“I think so,” she said. “I’ll take care of myself.”
He nodded once, processing the words slowly, carefully—like a math problem he wanted to check twice. Then he stood and disappeared into the house without explanation.
Fleta waited, confused and aching.
A minute later he returned, holding a small object wrapped in a piece of soft cloth.
“I made this,” he said, thrusting it toward her. “You should have it.”
She unfolded the cloth.
Inside was a tiny wooden figure the size of her thumb—hand-carved, smoothed at the edges. It was a hiker with a backpack, head tilted toward an imagined horizon. The details were careful and precise, the way Connor always worked.
Her throat constricted.
“Connor… it’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“It’s you,” he said simply.
She pressed it to her chest. “I’ll keep it with me. Always.”
He shifted his weight, looking at the porch instead of her face. “You’re my best friend. Even if you go far away. Even if you don’t come back for a while.”
She nodded, tears finally escaping. “You’re my best friend too.”
Connor reached out—awkward, hesitant—and touched her sleeve. It was the closest thing to a hug she’d ever gotten from him. And somehow it meant more.
Then he said, very quietly, “Good luck, Fleta. Please… survive.”
She wiped her eyes and managed a small smile. “I will.”
She stood, slipping the tiny carved hiker into her pocket where she could feel its shape against her palm. She took one last look at Connor—for once not sorting, not organizing, not creating a pattern. Just watching her with wide, steady eyes that didn’t blink.
“Goodbye,” she whispered.
“Bye,” he said.
She walked away before she lost her courage.
Halfway down the street, she turned. Connor was still on the porch, still watching, the cloth in his hands fluttering in the breeze.
Fleta touched the little wooden figure again, grounding herself with its smooth lines.
She had lost a piece of her heart on that porch.
But she had gained something too.
Strength.
Resolve.
And a reminder of someone who believed she could survive.
Tomorrow, she would be one step closer to leaving.
Tonight, she would carry Connor’s goodbye with her like a compass.
