Little Wolf

It had been so much easier than I had ever imagined it, tucking a few changes of clothes, enough money to last a week, food for twice that, and two or three sentimental items into a rucksack and sneaking away in the dead of night. Wyot was asleep, dozing easily at the foot of my bed, even if he had his own cabin, and no one would be rising for quite a few hours. I didn’t risk taking one of the cars, even though we had plenty, knowing that at least one person would hear the rumble of the engine. I simply packed my stuff, got dressed and left, slipping into the woods of my childhood, heading south towards California. I had no destination in mind, and I didn’t know when I was going to stop, if I was going to stop. I just knew that anywhere was better than the little circle of cabins and huts our families had built.

There had to be some place in this big, massive world that wanted one little girl, who’d been yelled at and stomped on and taken advantage of since she could lift a book. There had to be one little tiny spot for a girl, essentially raised by wolves. There had to be. I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

So, I packed up, and I left, his words still ringing in my ears as I did so.

I glanced back once, just to see if Wyot had felt the change, but he hadn't, so I kept going.