That night, Kellie couldn't sleep. She couldn't calm herself, and couldn't get rid of the lump in her throat, not the anger, not the sickness, not the horrid grief that tore at her aching throat. Her heart was torn into ribbons.
Then she made a decision. She couldn't stay there, couldn't get a nanny or go to a day-care center, as she knew her dad would make her do. She had to get away.
Slowly, quietly, she slipped out of her covers and stood up on the floor. She got some clothes out of her closet and, silently, put them on. Every scrape of the floor seemed like a tumble of soda cans, every tiny sound extended. She quickly and quietly grabbed a small backpack and stuffed in her pocket knife, a pack of gum, a blanket, a jacket, $20, and a field guide about wild-berries she had gotten for her birthday that year. Finally, she crept out into the hall, and snuck out into her living room. She sighed, glad that her dad hadn't woken up.
Kellie winced when her door creaked as she opened it. A breeze of wind blew into her face, and she shivered. She stepped out into the dark night, closing the door slowly behind her. She then took one cautious glance back, and suddenly felt an urge to go back, to tell her father everything and hope he would understand, and to curl up in some blankets. But she didn't. She wrenched her head away from the direction of her door, and then the urge went away. Then she ran. She ran until she could run no longer. When she stopped, she faced a private, enclosed section of forest. She wanted to be in a forest. She didn't care if she'd get shot when caught intruding. Kellie jumped the rusty, wired fence and ran into the forest. She stumbled past logs, trees, stumps, and rocks.
After a while, dawn began breaking, and the forest was lighting with a pale, colorless light. Dew was settling on the leaves, making it glisten. Kellie saw ahead of her a light. A huge wall of white, gleaming, blinding light. She shaded her eyes. Then she was thrown into the light, shrieking.