She moved so as not to be noticed by any of the neighbors returning home. Half an hour passed. Clifford was still grooming himself when the front door opened. Mr Johnson almost tripped over Clifford, not having seen him until the last second because his view had been obscured by the black trash bag that he was carrying in front of him. Clifford darted past him and disappeared into the house. Mr Johnson poked his head back in the door to follow his trail or maybe to yell something that Aria could not hear. He then closed the door behind him and walked the trash bag he was carrying out to the black garbage bin by the side of the garage. Aria tracked his movements. She had memorized them. They were the same ones he always made … his part of the Johnson family routine. Today, that routine made her queasy. It was obvious to her, sitting there, that dreams pull apart before they ever manifest. Her dream of mattering to this family, or any family, would obviously never come true. Had she hoped to arrive and find a squadron of cop cars with flashing lights? Had she hoped to see Mrs Johnson reduced to tears, begging them to find her daughter? Had she hoped to find Mr Johnson gone, turning over every stone to find her? She became conscious of these desires only now, once she could see that the reality was quite the opposite. Instead, Aria observed that she had already been forgotten. Had they even realized she was gone? “Of course they did,” she muttered under her breath in response to the thought. She imagined what they were doing inside. She imagined the smell and sounds of Mrs Johnson cooking. She imagined watching cartoons with her other adoptive siblings. She used to find the weight of them leaning against her on the couch obnoxious. Now, she missed that weight. She could see it now as a gift, rather than an imposition. A gift she had thrown away by running away.

For the briefest of moments, Aria entertained the thought of walking back through the door, but then she reminded herself of their plans to return her to the group home. Having said goodbye to Clifford, who did not seem upset to leave her, and having seen how forgettable she really was, she let her anger rescue her from the despair. It lifted her up and out of her state of drowning. Because of that anger, she could not access the feelings of grief underneath. They existed like watery depths inside her somewhere, beyond her awareness. And she was glad of that.

Aria took her shoes off, holding them in her hands, and ran. She ran as if by running away from those watery depths within her, she would not carry them with her. She ran until she couldn’t.