In the late summer of 1986, Winona Swan finds herself on the run with only her cat, a backpack and an old rucksack to her name. She has fled a dysfunctional life in Tucson with her flighty mother and controlling stepfather, and now hopes to start an...
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As I leaned my head against the Greyhound window, the glass round my temple fogged over, spreading like a dim, damp halo upside the pane. The bus's rattling had long since melted into white noise, its vibrating skeleton echoing in my skull like an overturned rain stick. Or maybe that was just the downpour outside, a physical border-line that divided familiar Nevada deserts from the deep green oblivion of the Pacific Northwest. Can't say I knew what to expect—the last time I set foot in Forks was in middle school, and I can't say it left much of an impression. But at this point, it wasn't as though I had any choice, unless I wanted to take my chances in some Tucson foster home for the next two years.
Cautiously, I ran my hand along my jaw and pressed down on the sore places—the welt was still there, and it had probably begun to bruise by now. Fantastic. I silently hoped that it made me look tougher than I felt—like I exchanged blows with a skinhead in a DQ parking lot instead of acting as a stand-in for my stepdad's punching bag. What a cliché. Like okay Nella Larson, tell me something I've never heard before. If it weren't for Phil, I'd be on a plane and there in two hours, tops. Probably could have gotten a refund, or at least taped the ticket back together, but who has the time for that when you're jumping out your seventh-story window and down a fire-escape?
It took me a month to save up for the flight to Port Angeles; my dad offered to pay, but I've never felt right about owing people—parent or not. He wasn't exactly rolling in money, anyway, and he'd already be putting a roof over my head and feeding me once I got there. No point in making things harder for him. Working at the garage down the street didn't pay big, with me being a minor, but cash is cash, and I've always liked poking around under the hoods of things. My boss usually didn't let me get that close, of course, but you pick up things when you hang around long enough. Regardless, what mattered was that he was going hold on to my bike for me until I found a way to get it up to Washington. Keep it safe while I was gone. But that was before Phil found the ticket—back when I thought running away was going to be exactly how it was in the movies.
Naïve.
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I told my mother time and time again: "if nothing changes, I swear I'm out, I'm gone-"
