The Runaway House

Three . The Runaway House

   The car headlights reflect off of a red, dirty house. The gravel beneath the tires crunches as I lift my head from the cold glass of the window.

The lights are on inside, even though it's almost midnight, like Jeff said. They give off an inviting glow.

Jeff reaches into the back seat and grabs my backpack. As he tosses it to me, he unlocks the doors. "Let's go."

I hop out and follow Jeff to the door. For the first time since I've met him, something is off. His shoulders are tense, his steps stiff. He runs a hand through his hair before entering the house and into the kitchen.

"Jeff." An old woman stands from her seat at the table.

"What are you doing here?" A deep voice growls.

A boy steps into the kitchen from an adjoining room, arms crossed, eyes forming a glare toward Jeff. There's a hole in the left arm of his T-shirt.

"Travis." Jeff's voice is constricted.

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here."

"I came to drop her off." Jeff gestures for me to step forward. "She says her name is Lee."

The old woman hobbles forward. The boy follows.

"Oh, sweetheart, you look exhausted! Would you like some cookies? Some milk?" She pulls me into a hug, which I tensely accept. "I'm Penelope."

I'm good with just going back to sleep in Jeff's truck, but I don't say so. "Nice to meet you," I mumble.

"Travis, can you get Lee something to eat?" Penelope pats my cheek. "She looks starved."

Yeah, I am. I've been too nervous to eat ever since . . .

My throat constricts, and my breaths start coming out all uneven and shaky.

Travis leads me to a large, butcher block table and helps me into a chair. When he notices my panic, his glare softens. "You're safe here now, Lee. I promise. We'll take good care of you." He squeezes my arm. "I'll get you something to drink."

He heads for the stove, and I watch Penelope. She's at the other end of the table, where towels, clothes of all sizes, and various blankets are strewn everywhere. She glances at me and then picks up a charcoal-colored shirt.

It has sleeves that would probably go just past my elbows, and there are buttons from the top to probably about halfway down. The collar is flipped over the wrong way.

"Do you think this would fit you?" she asks, fixing the collar.

I shrug. "I don't know. Honestly, I'm glad with just having clothes. That's the one thing I know I didn't pack enough of."

She smiles. "Well, with just that backpack, you can only carry so much. Let's see how you did. Open it up."

I do, carefully placing each item on the table. Granola bars. Two bananas. Three bottles of water. All of the money I have. Two shirts and a pair of crumpled-up jeans. A picture of me and my parents with our dog. My journal and two pens. A compass I got when I was a little kid.

Penelope nods slowly. "You did a lot better than Travis did when he tried to run away. But he was just ten. How old are you?"

I swallow, massaging my throat. I guess now the term "runaway" applies to me. I honestly never thought that would happen. I used to dream about running away—try to calculate how long I would survive. But never once did I think it would become my reality.