I shut the door behind me, leaning against it so the lock latches. Turn on the TV for noise and light and grab my dad’s buck knife from under the sink, because I feel safer when I can see it. I sit down with my guitar and try to write for a while, but I come up empty.

When I brush my teeth for bed, I see a big pink lipstick smudge on my cheek in the bathroom mirror. I don’t wash it off.

— Chapter 3 —

I sleep in till eleven a.m. and then work the antenna on the TV until I get a soap in clear enough to watch. There’s static and I can’t always tell who’s who, but the chatter lets me pretend I’m not alone. The mean lady, the one my mom always loved, just had brain surgery and it made her remember she has a twin sister named Sandra. Everyone’s shocked, forming a search party. Her ex-husband just said, “Searching for Sandra is asking for double trouble.” I can’t understand how my mom used to watch this stuff. Like really watch it, not just have it on for noise.

I set out a pencil, my math notebook, a can of diet pop, and grab my guitar. I need to write at least three more songs by Friday. At least.

Strumming through the chords I know, I flip-flop the order until it starts to sound like a song—E, C, D, G, back to E—before I move on to lyrics. I’m trying to come up with rhymes for lies—surmise, prize, tries, french fries—when I hear a twig snap outside. I want to pass it off as TV static, but then I’m sure I hear footsteps.

I grab my dad’s buck knife and inch toward the door, trying to keep the motorhome from shifting. If whoever it is didn’t hear my guitar, maybe they don’t know I’m here, and that has to give me a better chance.

Those footsteps get closer. The blinds are closed and I don’t know if I can peek out without being seen. The door is locked, but the handle moves a little as someone tries to turn it. I hear the scrape of metal on metal, maybe a lock pick. I use the point of the knife to part the blinds and see bright blue eyes shaded by brows like fat fuzzy caterpillars. It’s my father.

“You’re supposed to be at school,” he says as I open the door.

“You’re supposed to be at work,” I say, stepping aside to let him in.

He eyes the knife. “What the hell you doing with that thing?”

“What the hell you doing leaving your kid to fend for herself in the wild?”