I don’t open my eyes until almost noon the next day. The landscape has changed. Gone are the rows of suburban homes and neighborhoods set in nestling hills. We’re passing through expansive fields now, with hundreds of workers dressed in tattered clothes picking things off plants as we whiz by.

I sit up a bit straighter and yawn. My whole body feels stiff. I lean into the bus window as I gaze outside, and the glass feels cool against my forehead.

I wonder what my mom is doing right now. Is she panicked, looking for me, wringing her hands and wondering if something awful has happened to me? Or did she simply shrug off the search an hour after I disappeared, change into her La Perla nightgown, take a sleeping pill and crawl into her feather bed with a lazy yawn, her cheetah mask covering her eyes?

I can almost see her drying her tears and saying, “Yes, it’s quite a shame she’s gone. But I’m sure she’ll turn up. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get my beauty sleep.” I can even hear the heavy sigh she would heave for dramatic effect.

Still, I feel guilty.

Because as bad as the things are that she’s done to me, isn’t running away without so much as leaving a note even worse?

As the bus rumbles on into the southern afternoon, I try not to think about it. Instead, I think of the future and what will happen when I see my dad again. What it will be like to live a normal life—even if it’s only for a few days.

“End of the line!” the driver announces over the intercom as we finally draw to a halt in a bus station in Charlotte, the brakes squeaking in protest. “Everybody off!”

I stand up, along with the rest of the sleepy-looking passengers, and file off the bus, hoisting my tote bag over my shoulder and trying to blend in, hoping that no one notices me now in the thinning twilight. Outside the bus, the air is humid and sticky, a distinct difference from the crisp autumn chill of New York.

I get in line for the only ticket window that’s open.

“I need a ticket to Tampa, Florida, please,” I say once it’s my turn.

“Next bus to Tampa doesn’t leave for three hours,” says the ticket lady without even looking up. “You want a ticket?”

“Oh. I guess so,” I say, feeling my heart sink a bit. I’ll be basically a sitting duck just lounging in a bus terminal for three hours. Someone is bound to recognize me eventually. Maybe I’ll walk outside the station while I wait and see if I can find a place to eat. Now that we’ve stopped, I’m realizing that my stomach is growling at me.