She hadn’t expected his car to be there. For forty minutes she’d lurked around his property before convincing herself he was either out or asleep. In the next sixty seconds she’d managed to trot to the front door, jam the letter through the slot, race back to her bike, mount it, and ride madly for three blocks, only to screech to a stop a second before wiping out Mr. Davis and his Scotch terrier.

She’d almost lost it then, but she’d managed to apologize splendidly and explain she was late for supper, which she was. Mr. Davis had barely acknowledged her. She’d made it home unscathed and gulped down her meal, then plowed through two hours of English homework before doing some last-minute memorization for the French test tomorrow.

Things jostled and jangled in her head. She shifted about uneasily, then rolled onto her stomach. Sometimes the position itself would call up the pictures that brought release, the release required to disconnect her mind so sleep could carry her away.

Instead, she saw the Grove Street mailbox. And then she was standing on one foot in the middle of her moonlit room, pulling up her jeans. She dressed to be unnoticed: dark blouse, sneakers over bare feet, hair tied back from her face, a windbreaker. She slipped out the front door and closed it quietly behind her. Her parents, asleep in their separate rooms, did not stop her. In that moment, she understood that they would never stop her, that this leaving was a rehearsal for a later one.

Mist kissed her face. It was raining gently, and her thoughts dissolved in delight. She heard her mother’s voice calling her across the years, “Meg, come in, you’re getting soaked!” But she would not come in, she would run through the rain in a world deliciously her own.

On her bike, drops spattering her forehead and cheeks, she said out loud, “You can only get so wet,” and felt that same extraordinary freedom. She was sailing through the watery streets, the tires hissing beneath her. Streetlamps drifted by, haloed in the damp night air.

Mr. Davis passed this way, she thought, dry and warm in his car, eagerly anticipating his prize. Joy boiled up in her, and she squeezed the hand brakes hard. The rear wheel caught, choked, and began to skid out, just like a thousand times before. She squeezed harder and let the bike heel sharply, squeezed harder still, flirting with gravity. She let go. The rear wheel bit into the pavement, the bike jerked wildly, she grabbed the handlebars and yanked. She was upright, in control again. She rolled into her old neighborhood smiling.