A heat lamp and the chickens provided very little warmth on a night of nineteen degrees fahrenheit. Running out of the house in pajama shorts and barefoot hadn’t been the most thought out plan, but exiting the coop at this point was impossible without being found. Regret was a useless emotion… I should’ve run to a neighborhood friend’s house. Choices had already been made and with my aunt’s screaming so near to me, moving wasn’t an option. The chickens were content enough to have me there, true companions that had my back during a real consequences game of hide-and-seek. My right hand was frozen on the screw that came through the flakey plywood of the door, fingers clenched tight against the frigid metal that made the spot seem undisturbed. It latched from the outside and bloodless digits were all that held together the appearance of the door being undisturbed and sealed shut. I knew the red glow of the heat lamp projected my curled-up shadow onto the ground underneath the enclosure. Chicken Wire didn’t hide shadows but still, I doubted a drunk would be able to focus well enough on the details to spot the difference of the shadows projected on the ground beneath me. The opinionless but sober husband of the drunk hunting me? Whatever team he supported hadn’t been made clear yet. When my dad, aunt, and her husband had barged through the front entrance at three in the morning, I had still been lounging on the secondhand couch in the living room playing my Nintendo. Sleep was a rarity regardless of it being a school night or not. They had entered my space with the energy of displaced bees, moving around quickly and aimlessly. Their words were jumbled and messy but eventually a story was shaped through my eavesdropping. The first mistake was made. My existence had been unnoticed until I offered to help look for who I understood to be my missing mom. My aunt’s eyes sharpened and she struck, snagging my thin wrist in a bruising grip. “Where’s yer room?” She slurred out the demand as she jerked me around in a disorienting circle. “Show it ta me. Is it downsters?” I shook my head and struggled against the shackling hand. Too tight! Don’t touch me! “Last door on the left,” I responded. Had my feet slipped from beneath me, she would’ve dragged my body across the walnut floor. The door to my room was open but she still slammed it against the bright yellow wall as she barreled in. Her husband trailed us, muttering half-hearted protests about her treatment of me. “Come on, Sandra, let her go. She’ll listen to you.” His voice spoke of his sobriety but his passivity in regards to the actions of his wife showed that he would offer no assistance. “No! She can’t stay here! Tina’s a whore tha’ left the bar with ‘em,” her words were startlingly clear, even to eleven year old ears. Hearing someone call my mom such a slur was jolting and made me feel— “Pack a bag, Julia. Yer comin’ with us.” My throat tightened. A woman who I had only met three times before wanted to take me away from my parents and siblings. No. I had to get out of here. When the kids of my church played cops and robbers, I would walk towards the jail slowly, pretending as if I had been tagged so that I could get close enough to free the prisoners in one blinding escape. This felt similar. I pretended to be a captive, grabbing a bag and filling it with clothes that wouldn’t be missed: jeans with frayed hems and holes, t-shirts that smelled stale from being untouched in the drawer for too long, a pillow that had to be sacrificed. It was just stuff and it didn’t matter. A sweatshirt was thrown on to cover my spaghetti strap top before my aunt frogmarched me to the bathroom to grab my toothbrush. “Do y’all have toothpaste I can use at your house?” I asked while looking at the unopened tube within the medicine cabinet. Sandra grabbed a hairbrush that wasn’t mine and stuffed it in the bag. “Of cour-course, Sweetie. We’ll take care of ya.” Her words were broken apart by cliché hiccups of intoxication. I nodded my head and zipped the bag. Sandra handed the lightweight duffle to her husband and told him to take it to their car. My dad was crying loudly in his room next to the bathroom, leaving me alone with a crazy woman trying to steal me. He had abandoned me but this fact wasn’t a surprise. It didn’t matter. “I need to grab my boots from the laundry room. Then we can go,” I spoke softly, trying not to startle my aunt or hint at my deception. Despite using a soothing tone, Sandra didn’t like the idea. “Can’t ya wear differen’ shoes?” She drunkenly complained. That wouldn’t do. “Please,” I begged, “just let me run downstairs real quick. I’ll be fast. It’s so cold tonight, I just want my boots.” My eyes watered, mostly from the fear she inspired. Her drunk mind made her gullible and my youth made me innocent of plotting the way that I was. Sandra thought she was the most clever woman alive. She underestimated what desperation and playing games gave me. “Go grab the fuckin’ boots.” A yes was a yes no matter how it was phrased. “Thank you! I’ll just be a second.” I took off in a sprint down the stairs and swung left to the laundry room where an exit leading to the backyard existed. It was rarely ever used. The door, when fully closed, was difficult to open even when there was time to fight with it. Time was in short supply and the noise of the wood unsticking and dragging against the frame would alert the residents upstairs to something happening besides me collecting a pair of boots. I unbolted the lock and gripped the doorknob. One breath in. One breath out. A second breath in— My arm popped with the forceful yank that was given but the heavy door startlingly opened. Noise immediately sounded from above but I didn’t pause to listen. The storm door slammed into the dry-well walls as I flew out into the night and up to the gate that led to the driveway. I glanced down the rocky strip to see their car running but empty. The impulsive urge to jump in the driver’s seat and steal it had to be squashed as I heard Sandra and her husband trip down the stairs after me. A choice quickly needed to be made: head out into the streetlights or back into the yards. Hurtling the chain link fence to my neighbor’s yard and protected by darkness, I felt safer than any other point that night. The further back I went, the more certain my decision felt. Hopping the fence again into my yard behind the garage seemed like an obvious next step and that was my second mistake. The grass brushed midway up my calves, too high after being neglected. Sandra’s voice broke the quiet, closer than anticipated, “Julia! Julia, come back righ’ now!” Her voice screamed from the driveway I ditched seconds before. Panicked, I hid in the only place I could see that she wouldn’t check. Curled up on the chicken-wired bottom of the coop, shivering violently as the Indiana winter wind swept through the holes, and gripping a frigid piece of metal to keep my location as hidden as possible, I listened as my aunt and her husband wandered around feet from where I sat. Too close. They were too close. Praying wasn’t my forte but at that moment it was the only thing left to me. So I prayed the smell of chicken poop would dissuade them from looking too closely. I prayed that I wouldn’t lose my grip on the metal and cause the hatch to swing open. I prayed that my mom was alive and would come home. Please, God! Sandra and her husband drifted away from where I was hidden. My body begged for more oxygen than the fear induced shallow breathing allowed. Holding back the gasps I wanted to take caused the world to turn nearly colorless and my vision to narrow. It didn’t matter. My favorite chicken, affectionately named Hawk, jumped off one of the roosts attached horizontally across the pen and came to settle on my lap. The fingers not gripping metal buried within her plumage, greedily sucking up the minimal heat her body provided. She jerked at the icy touch but nestled down against me, not running away from the less than perfect offering of attention. Instead, on that hellacious night, she gave me everything her tiny body could offer. My aunt’s screaming was farther away now, probably out front and creating a scene for my neighbors to wake up and hear. They wouldn’t mention it. They never did. I was terrified to move but understood it had to be done. One thing TV had taught me was that shivering was good in the cold. My quaking had stopped and it wasn’t because of the heat lamp or Hawk. Nothing could protect my bare feet, legs, hands, and face from the Midwestern winter night. Nothing about Indiana was forgiving in late January. I needed to get inside and under blankets. Hawk was carefully picked up, her scaly legs going straight with stiffness, but she remained still since she trusted me not to hurt her. The part of my brain that was never acknowledged wished she would panic. It wanted her talons to scrape across my arms. Instead, she allowed herself to be placed beside me with a calmness only hand raising an animal for years could create. A moment was taken to convince my fingers that releasing the screw was alright. My brain wouldn’t relax enough to believe the backyard was a safe place to be. Was all of this going to be for nothing? If they saw me, would my legs be able to run away? The door creaked open. My legs uncurled and I climbed from the elevated box I had been hiding in. They were shaking like a newborn foal’s and when given weight, they rejected it and folded under. Salty liquid left trails of fire on my face as I ate frozen dirt and experienced an agony worse than the conditioning for basketball had ever caused. Suicides for three hours straight would be preferable to the knives that stabbed into me from my littlest toe to my hips. My mouth opened to cry out for help – “Julia! I’m trying to help you!” My aunt’s screaming was a stark reminder that I didn’t want the help being offered. I could only rely on myself. The edges of the chicken wire dug into my hands as I gripped the framework and lifted. My legs felt heavy but accepted my weight. It was enough. The coop was latched shut to keep my hiding place secret as well as protect my feathered friends from predators. That was all that mattered. What happened next wasn’t so much a walk across the yard as a barely controlled zombie stumble containing less grace than my drunk aunt had displayed. The brick garage gave much needed support and, fortunately, the rough texture couldn’t be felt by my numb fingers and forearms as they dragged across the imperfect texture. The threads of my sweatshirt were tugged loose but were inconsequential casualties in my journey toward the stairs of the haggard deck. My nails dragged against the chalky stone, snagging and chipping away. A book had told me that biting them had made them extra fragile and I was learning firsthand that the book’s information was correct. Months of effort to allow them grow was undone in a moment. It didn’t matter though. I just needed to go up. The first step resulted in my torso being shattered across the sharp, splintered edges. I was thankful that my head survived the crash. Standing again felt like too much energy so my body was dragged up the staircase by my stubbornness alone. What other choice was there? With every stair, I considered giving up. Tears hadn’t stopped engraving the dirt on my face since I hit the ground at the chicken coup. My nose was a faucet of slime that was furiously wiped away by numb fingers. Embarrassment and pride threatened to overwhelm me. One more step. Just one more. Reaching the plateau at the top, I layed there with my cheek pressed against the mossy planks as I caught my breath. Exhaustion gripped at my mind but the glass door leading to the house, to warmth, to my bed- it was right there. Ten more feet. I clutched the spindles holding together the upper and lower rails and heaved. Tiny splinters made a home in my hands as they slipped down the wood but I was numb. My hands weren’t the only victims of the wood. My face bashed against the bars causing my lip to gush warm heat that cooled quickly. I choked on a sob. One more time I hoisted. Victory! Spitting the red copper that had flooded my mouth over the edge was required since swallowing it wasn’t possible. The phlegm in my throat had turned into a living thing that growled with every breath. Clearing my throat or coughing it away would be reckless. Sandra or her husband might hear it. Unsteadily reaching out for the worn handle of the main back entrance, I pressed down. The seal popped but I was denied admittance. The deadbolt was in place. A scream built in my lungs, traveled up to the lump in my throat, and became stuck. What now? The kitchen window was to the right and was almost never locked. Almost. Shambling to it, I wondered if God had one more favor he would grant me. The flimsy screen inched upwards slowly, sticking a few times and jamming when one side rose unevenly with the other. Frustrated, I contemplated just ripping it from the frame but controlled the urge and impatiently worked it the rest of the way up. My hands pressed against the glass and searched for traction and before pushing. A gap was allotted, small but wide enough for a child’s body. All the air in my lungs escaped in one relieved burst. The shimmy through was conducted with practiced ease but I landed hard on the laminate floor inside. The room might as well have been filled with fire. Air from outside chased after me but couldn’t outpace the pumped heat coming from the vents. Curling into a ball to hide from the burning was futile. There was no escape. Someone meandered into the kitchen and offered a welcomed distraction. Dad clung to the doorframe. “She left with ‘em,” he mumbled, tears streaming down his face. He probably didn’t know who he was talking to. Would he even care if he does? “I know, D-Dad,” I said, my voice calm and quiet. Talking to him while he was deliriously drunk was a skill acquired years before, “it’ll b-be oka-okay. I need you t-t-to —help me, t-then we’ll f-f-find her.” The counter gave me leverage to pull myself up. I wiped my nose again and sniffed, the snot creating clear lines against the fabric of my sweatshirt, “P-please shut the wuh-w-window, Dad. Can you d-d-do that?” Watching him mozy to the open window nearly caused me to lose my mind. This game was so tedious but snapping at him would end his cooperation. I guided him through turning the locks before I started the short trip to the stairs and down them to the landing of our bi-level to bolt the front door. Down more stairs to the cold basement. The tile floor should’ve bitten at my toes with its chill but I couldn’t feel anything except a desire to get to the laundry room to finish guarding the house. In my rush, I made my third mistake by forgetting to pay attention. My aunt’s husband stood in the laundry room with his hand on the storm door, prepared to leave. We both froze in a standstill, eyes locked. I was caught. No more miracles. Everything had been pointless. He blinked, clearly surprised at another person entering the space. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes swept over me before they met my own again. I briefly asked what he saw that made his mouth twist that way. I’d never seen someone make that expression while looking at me. Then he did the improbable. He gripped the bronze knob gleaming against the peeling black paint, nodded to me, and slammed the heavy door shut behind him as he exited. I stood there staring after him before cautiously approaching the ugly door as if it were a cornered animal baring its teeth and ready to jump at me at any moment. It stayed put and allowed me to reach out. The sliding click of the old lock was finality to me. I slid the chain into place for extra security. The trip up the stairs revealed my dad prone on the floor of the kitchen as I had been. It felt like he was mocking me. I helped him up and led him to his room. Shoes were untied and slid off. Stroking his sweat dampened hair was a familiar action in a night filled with newness. He watched me with a watery red gaze. “She’s gone, Lia.” I shushed him. “I’ll find her, Dad. Just go to sleep. It’ll be okay.” Lies poured straight through my teeth. My mom might be dead in a ditch and we wouldn’t know until someone reported the body. He didn’t need to think about that and I didn’t want him to. I wanted the quiet of the house before the catastrophe of my family ruined it. I wanted to be left alone in the warmth for a bit and to be an irresponsible child. I covered him with a blanket and clicked the light off, closing the door behind me as I went to collect the phone. I called my mom’s cell for hours: dial, ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring, “the caller you are trying to reach is not available”, hang-up, repeat. I wondered about calling the police but knew they’d have questions I wasn’t prepared to answer. I kept calling until finally— “Mmm, ‘ello?” “Mom! Thank God! Where are you?” She was trashed but she had answered. She was alive. She groaned dramatically. “Inna bed? ‘m home,” she answered. “No. No, Mom, you’re not home. You left the bar with someone. Where are you? I’ll get you home.” I very much couldn’t drive yet but I’d do anything necessary. It didn’t matter how, I’d figure something out. “Uhmm, mmm,” I could feel her struggling and felt my panic ratchet up, “ ’m sleepy.” “I know, Mom. Please, just tell me what you remember.” I was crying again. “We c’n tal’ later,” and she hung up. I nearly choked on my sobs, salty snot and tears running into my gasping mouth. I was going to die here alone and miserable. My dad’s door cracked open. “Did ya fin’ ‘er?” he asked. I wiped my face and smiled at him. “I talked to her. She’s safe and getting some rest. She’ll be home in a bit. Go back to bed, Dad.” His door shut again. A glance at the clock showed it was 6:23. Sighing, I prepped the coffeepot to drip and went to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror as I stripped and sat under a spray too hot for my still numb limbs. It didn’t matter. I got dressed for school not caring what I wore as long as it covered as much skin as possible. The bus in the morning was always quiet, some kids opting to nap in the darkness before the day ahead. The mental pep-talk I gave myself was inadequate but all that I had to comfort myself with. The fluorescent lighting inside the school was too bright compared to the dimness of my house. The students were too loud compared to the silence of the bus.. The announcements and pledge held too much static after the night, I could feel the vibrations in my teeth. It didn’t matter. Nobody asked me if I was okay. My teacher met my gaze. I saw him look at my bruised face, my scraped red and raw hands and forearms. We made eye contact. Ask me if I’m okay. Please! He looked down, telling me without words that adults wouldn’t save me. I liked the teacher so I excused his actions. He didn’t notice. Maybe it wasn’t his responsibility to notice? My heart wanted to believe it was good acting skills but my head knew the sad truth. Nobody cared. Not my parents, not my peers, not my teachers. I was surrounded by people yet completely alone. The bus ride from school was accomplished as silently as the morning's ride had been but only by me. The rest of the occupants were ecstatic to be going home. The house, when I entered it, was stagnant so my bag was dropped on the floor of the entry, mind made up to go to my friend Peter’s house. He was in middle school so he got home before my elementary school was released for the day. Knocking was unnecessary when his mom’s van wasn’t under the carport. She worked often, so I rarely saw it there before the evening. Walking straight in, I found him in the living room playing Halo. Without a glance, he saved his game and tossed me an extra controller while he set the game up so we could play against one another. He gave me an escape, no questions asked. Did I want him to ask? It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t ask just like I never asked why he turned the television off and made me hide under his bed when his dad dropped by. It was an unspoken agreement between us. When his mom came home, she allowed us to hog the family room and play our game for hours. When she offered to share their dinner with me, it was time to leave. She must’ve known my homelife wasn’t great but it was a rule to not talk about things that weren’t brought up first. The sun was so low in the sky that only a sliver was still glowing on the horizon. It smelled like working chimneys and frost. It was freedom from the prison my house’s walls had become. Craving to run away was a fantasy that would never be attempted. I wasn’t stupid. I had friends in the system and, while I felt miserable, at least my room was mine. At home, my mom and dad were setting the table for dinner. They were both smiling like nothing had happened. Sharing a space as if my mom hadn’t left us the night before. As if my dad hadn’t surrendered his daughter to be kidnapped by people I had only ever seen at family Christmas parties. That was what we did though. We pretended like we weren’t splintering from the stress, one solid hit from breaking away into irreparable pieces. I knew what I was expected to do. Falling into line, a grin painted my face with practiced ease. We were all pretenders in this family. Fake, miserable people playing house with no idea that soon, there would be no more pretending. Soon, but not yet. Not now. The mistakes I made would be the last time I made those mistakes, but many more would be made and last night would just become another secret for the box. Guess what? It didn’t matter.