I stood on that porch for maybe five minutes, completely frozen. Not from the cold—though that was creeping in—but from the sheer shock of the violence. I stared at the wood grain of the door, waiting for it to open. Waiting for someone to laugh and say it was a misunderstanding. Waiting for my father to remember that he loved me.
Nobody came. The porch light flickered off.
My phone was sitting on my bedroom desk. I wasn’t allowed to grab anything. My backpack contained textbooks, a TI-83 calculator, and a crushed granola bar. Nothing useful for surviving a night in the elements.
It was 2011. Payphones still existed, but they were endangered species, and who carried quarters anymore? Certainly not a fifteen-year-old who spent her money on posters. Straight-A student, zero-star survival skills.
So, I started walking.
I didn’t make a conscious decision about where to go. My body just moved on autopilot toward the only safe harbor I knew: My grandmother Dorothy’s house.
It was seven miles away.
Seven miles is nothing in a car—ten minutes with the radio playing. But walking seven miles through freezing rain in canvas sneakers with no coat? It might as well have been seven hundred.
Route 9 stretched ahead of me, dark and slick like the back of a leviathan. Cars splashed past, blinding me with their high beams, sending waves of freezing sludge onto my jeans. I was just a shadow on the roadside, a shape nobody wanted to look at too closely.
After the first mile, my clothes were soaked through to my skin. The denim of my jeans felt like lead weights.
After the second mile, I couldn’t feel my fingers. I tucked them into my armpits, but the shivering had started—violent, racking tremors that shook my bones.
After the third mile, my teeth were chattering so hard I was afraid they would crack.
