CHAPTER 23 – The First Mile East

  The bus rolled east across the Kansas line long before the sun had fully risen. Pale gold light spilled across the fields, bathing everything in a glow that felt unreal—like someone had turned the world softer just for her.

  Fleta pressed her forehead to the cool window.

  Houses, barns, fence lines—they all slipped past like pages turning.

  Each mile carried her farther from Maple Street, from the floorboard hiding place, from the storm house she’d grown up inside.

  She didn’t feel free yet.

  Not exactly.

  But she felt moving.

  And that was enough.

  The bus wasn’t crowded—just a handful of early travelers who looked like they’d lived a hundred different lives already. An older woman with a crocheted shawl slept with her mouth slightly open. A man in a baseball cap thumbed through a worn paperback. The driver hummed quietly to a country song on the radio.

  No one looked twice at her.

  That was perfect.

  As they neared Joplin, the landscape changed—less empty, more cars, more buildings, more noise. The world seemed bigger here, wider. Fleta’s heart quickened, a mix of excitement and the sharp edge of fear.

  At the Joplin station, the driver called out, “Ten?minute stop! Stretch your legs, use the restroom, grab snacks!”

  Fleta slipped off the bus, her pack over one shoulder, feeling small among strangers. She found a corner near the vending machines and checked her money—thirty?seven dollars left. Enough. Just enough.

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  She bought nothing. She needed every dollar.

  Her eyes darted toward the digital schedule board. The next bus to Springfield would arrive in seven minutes.

  Seven minutes until the first true break with Kansas life.

  While she waited, she pulled Connor’s carved wooden hiker from her pocket and turned it over in her fingers. The tiny figure seemed braver than she felt. Or maybe it reminded her of who she wanted to become—someone who kept walking no matter how hard the ground beneath her feet trembled.

  A voice startled her.

  “You dropping something?”

  She looked up.

  An older woman with short gray curls and bright blue sneakers stood a few feet away, pointing to the carved hiker Fleta nearly dropped.

  “Oh—no. I’ve got it,” Fleta said quickly, tucking it protectively back into her pocket.

  The woman smiled kindly. “Thought that was one of those little trail charms. My nephew hikes all over. Says some folks carry a token for good luck.”

  Fleta’s pulse jumped. “People do that?”

  “Oh sure,” the woman said. “Says the trail can be rough. A little reminder of home keeps you going.”

  The words hit Fleta in her center—soft and sharp at once.

  She nodded. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

  The woman gave a warm smile. “Your stop’s Springfield too?”

  Fleta hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Well,” the woman said, adjusting her bag, “safe travels, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks,” Fleta managed.

  She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pry. Didn’t look too long at the weariness in Fleta’s eyes.

  Just kindness. Quick and passing—the kind that didn’t ask for anything in return.

  The bus for Springfield arrived with a low hiss.

  Fleta boarded.

  This time she chose a window seat near the very back, so she could see everything but be seen by no one.

  As the bus pulled away, the woman with blue sneakers gave her a small wave from the sidewalk. Fleta lifted her fingers in return.

  Then Joplin faded away behind her.

  The road curved east.

  The sky widened.

  Missouri swallowed the miles.

  Somewhere on the edge of her seat, her fingers brushed the wooden hiker again, and her chest swelled—not with fear this time, but with something steadier.

  Hope.

  Small, fragile, fierce.

  She whispered to her reflection in the window:

  “One mile down.

  A thousand to go.”