The clock says four fifteen. I know by the bus ticket in my pocket that I must leave soon in order to make the four forty-five to Los Angeles. The house is full; everyone is excited about the beginning of summer vacation and the new red ’63 Chevy parked outside. I’m excited too— anxious, really—not only about summer vacation and the new red car but also about what I’m getting ready to do. How am I going to get out of the house? What if I’m caught? Exactly where is the bus depot?

Around four thirty, I walk through the kitchen toward the back door. I pick up the garbage pail and mumble, “I’m taking out the garbage.” Bertha is standing at the stove by the back door but doesn’t say anything. As I walk across the backyard to the garbage cans, my heart is beating so hard I think it’s coming through my chest. When I get to the cans, I look out of the corner of my eye to see if anyone is watching me. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so. I actually empty the pail and then set it down and just start running! I can’t be caught, and I can’t be seen by anyone who knows me! I must make that bus! Down one street, up the other. On this side of the railroad tracks, there are no sidewalks and the roads are not paved; the gravel hurts my feet and makes me stumble. I cross the tracks and stop. Which way?

In the distance, I can see the big greyhound on the depot sign—not far now. My throat is dry; my chest hurts, but I keep running. Just as I turn into the depot, the bus pulls out. No! It can’t leave without me! I can’t go back! I’ll never be able to explain where I’ve been. I stop—just for a second—and then run in front of the bus. It’ll just have to run me down!

The bus skids to a stop, and the driver opens the door. I get on, hand him my ticket, and try to show him the other papers I have—the papers from my mother’s attorney that say I’m en route to her in Seattle from Texas via Los Angeles and no one should stop me.