I began plotting my exit as if for another girl. I had not had many friends growing up, imaginary or otherwise, so it wasn’t for anyone in particular I began stashing supplies in an old canvas backpack—rope and jerky and matches and candles, a pot, a hatchet, mason jars and tins of pantry staples, a knife, vegetable seeds, knitting needles, yarn, a cake of soap wrapped in waxed paper, one of Og’s giant sweaters—just for some girl who was in trouble, some girl who had to flee.
