Marnie tossed the yearbook into her open backpack. She sat and waited for the faint rumble of the tires on pavement outside of her friend's Honda CR-V, trying to pinpoint it through the horde of other cars blending into each other. Hearing the small plastic mattress crinkle under her, she stared at the pink sun-faded walls, covered in squares and paint chips from hangers and nailed religious posters, now bare. Moonlight peeked through the grimy window, along with flashes of headlights beaming on her face. They danced on everything that was lined up by the door. She just needed to go. With a bright beam of light piercing the room, Marnie stood up. Her friend was waiting for her. 

Marnie’s feet were glued to the shaggy, stained carpet, ripped and burned, like her. With her life in cardboard, Marnie prepared to go. The rumble of the car shook her 5x5 room. It didn't take long for her to reach the door. Three boxes, one plastic bag, and a backpack from when she was 6. Marnie, now with the wear of an 18-year-old, catches herself in the mirror. She looks nothing like the happy child her parents see; her eyes are tired. Did she always have that bruise? Filled with anger and a new determination, she leaves her boxes behind. She won’t need them. Everything she could need is on her. Laura probably wouldn’t have space for all of Marnie’s baggage anyway. 

With careful footsteps, Marnie moves down the narrow stairwell. One step right, one left, left again, middle, left. All the cracks were painstakingly memorized to avoid the wardens. Their eyes peered at her from the family photos crammed together. Her parents’ likenesses seemingly alert the house to her movements, following her closely, waiting for any mistake. Too fast, loud, slow, not smart enough, fat, lazy, expensive, selfish, impulsive. Marnie stares back, glaring. Her feet carefully step off the stairs. Using the latch on the door, she hears the lock click. Marnie undoes the top deadbolt, the slide lock, and finally the doorknob. A small pitter-patter appears behind her. “I’ll miss you, sis”, Marnie says. The small dog's eyes, crusted from sleep, stare back. 

The wind is crisp. The cicadas are singing, the beams of her angel are shining bright, welcoming and guiding. Laura sticks her hand out of the car’s window. Slow steps turn to a medium pace, then a run. The door slams behind her. She now has 15 seconds, but it's too late for that now. She’s untouchable. Sliding into the front seat, Marnie yells to drive. “What about your stuff? WHO’S THIS?”. Pipi, the Maltese, sits in Marnie’s lap. The newly formed trio is already a neighborhood away by the time the light turns on.