Safe

Olive snuck back to the woods on the weekend following her move to college, returning by bus and walking in along the tracks. She told no one; there was no point. "Hey, guys," Olive greeted them (the massive oaks and the loitering pines). "I'm here for a couple of days to say thanks and then I have to roll." From her massive mountaineering backpack, she pulled a forest hammock and her subzero sleeping bag - getting it all set up and tested before she went the next step and hung the pack next to it (looping an axe leash over a nearby branch and using the carabiner as a clasp). Olive sat in the tiny clearing and told them the plan; she confessed the treacheries and how there was no school that she was enrolled in and how the money had been reinvested to buy distance and safety. She told them about traveling at night and shelters and tickets to towns she'd never heard of. "I don't know if or when I'll be back," Olive whispered (her eyes misted), "but I want you to know that I'll carry you with me forever. You were my first safe place." The trees rustled, sad in parting, grateful for a little more time, and busy sending word across the earth in roots, bulbs, and the secrecy of dirt that she was theirs always, marking her for protection and broadcasting that she was worthy of a very good life.