The heavy white door slowly sank into its folded hinges as a young teenage girl leaned against it, locking it behind her. She stood at the very end of an L-shaped hallway, a closet door facing her like she was in some sort of duel. After two seconds of just leaning against the door, the girl took a deep breath and pushed herself in the direction of her room.

"Natoya? Is that you?"

She first felt her feet dragging against the light brown lament flooring.

"Yes, ma'am..." She replied, dropping her duffle bag right beside the inside of her door. She picked her shoe up, lifting it to her hip as she began to untie her laces to get ready to unwind after such a long day of traveling.

"Natoya Los, you will immediately put that duffle bag in the closet. I know you've returned from your fathers', but you'd best understand that his house rules and mine are far from similar." Mrs. Los's words poked her like a stick as they brought her back four years into the past. She took a deep breath to compose herself, then set her half-tied shoe on the ground.

"Mom, I just got back." Natoya sighed and leaned down to pick up her bag. Suddenly, it felt like thousands of tiny ants crawled through her muscles, forcing them to rebel against her as if she told them recess was over. She quickly stood back up, failing to grab the handles of her duffle bag as she did. "...I'll pick it up in a second," she exhaled.

Her mother didn't look too happy about that. In fact, she seemed pretty angry. Natoya closed her eyes, and all she could hear was her energy being directed into the pan of sizzling onions, which popped and hissed.

"Natoya Los, I don't have the patience for games. You will promptly pick up that bag and place it where it belongs." Her mother spoke in a sharp tone. When Natoya looked back over to her, it almost felt like the knives she was using to cut that same onion were now being directed at her.

"Just give me one second." Natoya thought she sounded like this, but she must have said something incredibly vulgar toward her mother because not two seconds later, she exploded into a hissy fit about disrespect and how she was always kind to her dad but rude and hateful.

"Dad doesn't yell at me two seconds after I enter the door," Natoya cried, her voice raising and lowering. She was trying her very hardest not to blow up on her mother; she knew that it wouldn't lead to anything, but her entire body had been screaming at her for the past 10 hours, and now so was her mother.

"That's it! Go to your room and think about what you've done!"

"I'll go back to my room, alright," Natoya said, gritting her teeth while she walked back to her bedroom. She couldn't help but feel incredibly annoyed at how she was already targeting her even though she had just gotten back home.

"What was that?!"

"As you wish, Your Majesty ~" Natoya shot back at her, doing a curtsy bow as she turned around to look at her. She could see her face growing red with anger, but she didn't care. A tiny part of her felt like she was acting like some spoiled kid. Maybe hanging out at her dad's place for the past week did make her more of a brat. Or perhaps it was just the sudden change from being able to chill to being punished for putting a bag in the wrong place.

"You're grounded, young lady!"

Natoya rolled her eyes at her mother's threat. It wasn't as if she would let her go outside anyway. New York City was too scary and dangerous for a "little girl" like me. Her dad thought differently. He thought the only way I'd grow into a strong, brave woman was to let her roam alone. He thought she was old enough and figured the self-defense classes he had her take during the summer would be enough. And she agreed. If she hadn't had to come back 'home' today, she would be watching some street fight in an abandoned parking lot.

But she wasn't at her dad's house. Instead, she was walking into her bedroom, hearing her mother shout at her. Her anger grew slowly as she heard her footsteps growing closer to me.

"If you liked it with your dad so much, why don't you just stay with him?" Her mother's threat was empty. She always pulled that card with any argument we had. Her voice quavered as she shouted, echoing through the apartment. It felt almost as if the floor trembled out of fear like the first time Natoya herself heard those words. But today, four and a half years later, she stood unphased.

"You know what?" Natoya said tremulously, finally losing her composure.

"What?" Mrs. D'Angelos scowled back at her. Natoya grabbed her duffle bag and a little black school bag hanging from her door handle. She was surprised her mother hadn't thrown it out after she left during winter break. Her mother knew this bag as "the drama queen bag." It had everything she needed when she ran away: non-perishable snacks, bottled water, hygiene items, a light blanket, and, most importantly, money.

"Oh, sure. Run away!" She screamed as she shoved past her door, throwing the school bag over her shoulder and gripping her duffle bag.

"I will! And I'm never coming back!" she shouted at her, her voice quivering as she did. She stormed out of the bedroom and began heading for the stairs, feeling too angry to wait five seconds in an elevator.

Her feet stomped down on the metal, and her schoolbag bounced up and down, switching between being too high for her shoulders and too low for her back until she finally reached the first floor. She slammed the metal door separating New York City from her mother's apartment complex. She began walking down the street, filled with anger, frustration, and exhaustion. Usually, I'd just stop by a friend's house, stay the night there, and return in the morning. If she was more angry at her than usual, I'd go as far as to stay there for the weekend, but this time was different. This time, she was so stuck up with her attitude that she wanted to do something different, something she could have never expected.

She wracked her brain for an idea, dancing around the concept of going back to her dad. But she didn't even know if she had the funds for that. From what she understood, plane tickets were well in the hundreds, not including bus tickets. She continued walking down the street, spotting a tiny gas station on the other side of the road. She might not have enough money, but there was only one way to find out.

She entered the gas station, pushed open the door, and walked straight to the restroom. There, she pushed the stall door open and locked it behind me. She dropped her duffle bag on the top of the toilet bowl and unzipped the first pocket in her school backpack. Inside was a tiny stuffed animal her dad had given her when he and her mother divorced. It was coated with long, thick fur wrapped around its exterior, and on its back was a tiny, hidden zipper. She pulled open the zipper, revealing a thick wad of cash- the money she had been saving since she was 11 1/2.

She began to count how much money she had. $25. $50. $100. $250. $257 and some spare change, a ton of quarters. The money comprised everything she had been selling to friends and pawn shops, the gifts she didn't want, or the toys her mother told her to throw away. The paintings she made or the bets against boys who thought beating a girl in physical activity would be an easy $5. All hidden within the tiny stuffed animal her dad gifted her before he left.

Her mind was racing, and her thoughts came in bundles, unpackaged like a child anxious to see what they got for Christmas. It was still freezing cold in the middle of winter. She looked down at her watch and saw the time; it was almost 5:00 P.M. She knew the streets would be busy with people walking to and from work or visiting family. She stared at the cash momentarily, considering actually listening to her mother and revisiting her dad. He always said if she ever needed a place to stay, he'd let her for as long as he legally could- but how long would that be? Did it even matter?

She pulled out her phone and quickly opened Google. "NYC to LA flights." A menu popped up, and she saw a variety of flights ranging from $150 to $300. The only thing that mattered was whether or not she could make it in time. She opened the cheapest one and looked it up online. The only issue that it had was baggage. She looked up to see what the extra fine would be, then sighed a breath of relief as she read that personal items were free. That breath of relief was quickly sucked back into her soul as she noticed that carry-ons were $50. It didn't matter; she would be fine if it was less than $250.

She shoved the money back into the stuffed animal and zipped it back up, covering the zipper again with fur. She felt a bit of resistance as the zipper got caught here and there, but nevertheless, she shoved the small toy back into her school backpack and threw it over her shoulder. She bent down and grabbed the duffle bag, her heart racing as she realized what she was about to do.

She opened the stall door with the words "H + G FOREVER" carved on it and shut it behind me, leaving them forever staring at the brown tile wall. She began walking through the candy aisle, finding a small brown pouch of chocolate candy. She shook her head and left the gas station, almost guilty about not buying anything and wasting the cashier's time.

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As she walked out of the gas station, sudden winds hit her, almost convincing her to turn around right then and there. Nevertheless, she looked back at her phone to find directions to the airport.

"Newark Liberty International Airport..." she breathed out, typing in the address while she tried to remember it from the website. It would be an hour's bus ride from where she was standing, and it would get her there at 5:53—but it would leave at 5:20. It was about to be 5:06.

She quickly began speed-walking from the gas station to Pennsylvania Station, where she boarded the 5:20 P.M. bus and stopped at New Ark Airport Railroad Station. She almost didn't want to leave the warmth the bus offered. Still, she was pushed out, as several others didn't have the same hesitation. Most people who got off at that station were heading to the airport. She got onto her last train, a brisk drive to the airport.

After she had climbed out of the bus, she followed a large group of people into the airport until they all split ways, and she was left standing next to a Dunkin Donuts Express. She made eye contact with the worker and quickly looked away to a nearby escalator that would lead to the next floor. "Think of a story... Okay," she thought, taking a deep breath before returning to the cashier and finishing someone's order.

"Excuse me..." she spoke. At first, her voice was a small, quiet whisper, but she quickly raised it to grab her attention. "My mom and dad were supposed to buy a ticket, but they both got too busy and forgot about it. I need to board a plane and don't know where to buy a ticket."

"Oh, sweetie. Rolland? Rolland, could you come here for a second?" Natoya looked over and took a look at some blond-haired teenager who looked like retail service had sucked the soul out of him. His eyes were lying on top of eye bags, and his hair looked like a 2017 Californian girls' magazine.

Rolland explained that she could only pay for tickets online through a credit card. She stared at him wide-eyed. How didn't she already think of this? She could feel a great sense of fear enter her lungs. Do they even believe her story?

"Well..." Natoya gulped, took a deep breath, and then looked back at the two. Is there... anything I can do...?" she asked, feeling herself beginning to shake. Rolland looked at the cashier, who looked back sympathetically. I really, really need to get back," she practically whispered, almost forgetting that she was in the middle of an act. I can't miss school again; my dad will kill me!" she whispered in a partial shout.

Rolland and the cashier looked at each other for a long moment before Rolland took a deep breath. "Can you cover me for a minute?" He asked. The cashier nodded, and Rolland walked behind the counter and towards me.

"I'll take you to the Ticket Counter. We'll see if we can get you a flight, " he said softly, putting his hand on her shoulder. She nodded briskly and quickly began to follow him through the airport. Her backpack felt like bricks weighing down her shoulders, and her arms were tired of holding her duffle bag all day. She followed closely behind Rolland until we approached a large center with receptionists behind a desk.

Rolland walked up to them, still dressed in his uniform. The two conversed briefly before Rolland pulled out his wallet and flashed his ID to the receptionist. She turned to her computer and heard clattering sounds against keys on a keyboard. Rolland looked at her and opened the palm of his hand, hiding it from the receptionist. She only noticed this seconds later, trying to figure out what he meant.

Finally, she realized and dropped her school bag. He looked down at her confusedly as she pulled out the tiny stuffed animal and pulled down the zipper on its back. She then took out the wad of cash and slid it into his hand. He nodded, and she closed the zipper, shoved her stuffed animal into her backpack, and stood back up.

"Your flight will be at 6:50 P.M. in..." The receptionist broke eye contact with Rolland and turned to her computer screen. "One hour." Rolland nodded and then took her back to the restaurant where he worked. After we left the receptionist's sight, Rolland gave her the change for the transaction.

"Thank you so much," she said to him as a breath of relief washed over me.

"Don't worry about it," Rolland replied. He looked down at her with almost pity. "I'll have to walk you to the airplane since it has her name, but you're on your own after that. Have you done this sort of thing before?"

"Yeah.." she replied, recalling the last time she had traveled from New York City to Mohave. She knew everything she would have to do; the only thing different this time was that it was a different airport than what she was used to. I'd have to take a bus to her dad's apartment this time. "My mom and dad divorced four years ago; I've just never actually bought the ticket on my own yet."

"Well, if you want, you can hang out with me and Carol until the plane arrives." She squinted at the name Carol. Perhaps she was the original cashier she was talking to. We continued walking, eventually growing closer to his workplace. Her eyes widened at how many people were surrounding the counter. Rolland quickly sped up into a jog to help the first cashier—or Carol.

She watched as Rolland and Carol tackled the wave of people they were trying to serve. She leaned against a wall, watching the mob of people standing in a single-file line organized by temporary fences, which immensely helped crowd control. Occasionally, I'd pull out her phone and check her messages. She didn't expect anything from her mother. Her last message was two weeks ago when she left for her dad's house. Her dad's last message was, "Did you get home safe?" she replied, "Yes! Thank you, dad!"

6:10, the crowd grew heavier with every minute. At 6:20, there was an announcement for an airplane that was about to take off. At 6:30, several people had left, and the hallway we stood in was practically empty.

At 6:40, Carol handed her a chocolate donut and a small drink. "Have a safe trip, sweetie." She said, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Thank you!" she said, smiling, but a bit of her heart hurt. She felt herself having grown attached to this lovely lady, and now she would have to leave and probably never see her again.

At 6:45, Rolland walked over and led her through the hallways to the section where her flight would be. She finished her drink and threw her trash away in a nearby trash can before we entered a large tunnel, where a lady checked her—or technically Rolland's—ticket and ID. That original sad feeling worsened as she concluded that this would be the last time she would ever see Rolland.

"Good luck, kid. Stay safe." He ruffled her hair and offered her another soft, almost genuine smile.

"Thank you!" she repeated, her voice almost getting choked up. She knew he noticed but didn't say anything. It could only make a person wonder—did he also feel this way? Or was this a regular occurrence?

She grasped the ticket in her hand, searching for the seat she would have to sit on for the next 6 hours. This was it; there is no turning back now. After four years of saving up money to be able to do this, she wasn't even sure if she would be sent back to her mother's house or not. She felt a wave of heat crash onto her face as she began to overthink. She had been on a plane several times a year; why was she only now becoming anxious?

She first got on a flight to visit her dad on Christmas break. It had been a few weeks since her mother and dad finalized their divorce- her mother regularly degraded her for wanting to visit him after he had left us to live on the other side of the world. On top of being scared that she was on a plane to a place she had never been before, she was conflicted about whether or not she even wanted to visit her dad or stay home. Now, she realized it was the best thing to happen.

The plane began to shake rapidly, and she looked outside the window to see it slowly rolling down a wide concrete road. She could feel the wind's resistance against the airplane, and she could see the airport off in the distance, separating roads from the bright blue and cloudy skies of New York City. It took longer than she expected for the airplane to take off, but when it did, it quickly rose from the ground to a slight degree. She felt gravity almost pulling her stomach to the earth and clutched onto her seat as the airplane began to turn into the sky.

Goodbye, New York City. Hello, it's a seven-hour flight.

*************************

09:58 P.M.

*************************

The plane flew over a neighborhood in L.A, rows and rows of buildings neatly organized by roads that converge into larger roads. The airplane slowly lowered until we reached an area full of concrete and parking lots. She grabbed her school bag from under the seat before her and waited for the plane to fully land on the concrete strip.

The plane finally contacted the ground, a slight jump as it slowed more and more to a halt. She stood up and followed the people out of the airplane and into Terminal 5. From there on, she briefly walked to LAX-T5-II, where she would board the bus at 10:08 P.M. She could feel herself growing increasingly tired, starting to go on autopilot, just following the instructions on her phone, which was slowly running out of battery. The bus reached Union Station FlyAway, and she walked for three minutes until she reached the Metro D-Line. That bus would take her to Pershing Square, where she would get off and breathe in the downtown L.A. air. She sat behind two men who looked like bikers. They spoke in low voices about a street fight happening tomorrow evening. She tuned in to listen to what they were saying.

She got off the bus and looked around. Across the street from her was a Walgreens, and she continued to head down that direction for another 13 minutes. She memorized the street name where her dad's apartment complex would be and quickly realized she knew the area.

She walked down the street for 13 minutes until she reached her mental landmark—Brownstone. From here on, she would turn the corner and walk down San Pedro St. Finally, she was here in the middle of the night.

The building started as a store, but the Tailor Loft's apartment complex was directly above it. You could push out brown brick walls and red framed windows to bring polluted air into your industrial-style apartment, which almost looked like an unfinished construction site. To the right was a sketchy store that I, herself, never entered. It was boarded with wood with the decal "Sale" written on the windows and a little white sign that said "WE are O P E N."

She opened the door leading into the apartment complex and began climbing up the stairs, clutching her school bag and duffle bag. She climbed up the first, second, third, and fourth flights of stairs until she finally reached the floor her dad lived on. She walked through the long, deserted hallway and finally reached her dad's unit, knocking on the door.

"I'll be there in a minute!" she heard his voice call from the other side of the apartment. She wondered what was going through his head. Maybe he was expecting someone? A girl he met at a coffee shop? A repair worker to fix the broken knob on his door? Girl Scout cookies?

He opened the door and stood in confusion, startled, as he stared at me, his 14-year-old daughter, whom he thought had left his house almost twenty hours ago. Perhaps she was the last person he expected to see at 11:08 P.M.