When Trudy pulled into her small front garden, her phone responded to her home WiFi with an alarming aggression she'd never once heard it put through. Discarding the moped on the grass and letting the wind slam the gate behind her, she shoved into her house and barely had her coat off before she'd started scrolling through her hectic inbox.

It had barely been ten minutes since she'd made her escape, but already PP News were after her. She had to give it to them: they worked quickly. Of course they did. And they wouldn't stand for an instance that made them appear slow or – God forbid – behind.

RE: NOTIFIED ABSENCE – 15TH JANUARY, GERTRUDE LAITH

Good morning, valued employee.

This morning, 9:53am, we received notice from employee Raymond Clarke that you became absent whilst out in the field.

We do expect an explanation, for an unexplained absence, PARTICULARLY while on a VERY IMPORTANT job is entirely UNACCEPTABLE, and could impact your ability to work with us in future.

Please respond to this email within the day.

Thank you,

Emily Forrester

Manger of Operations, PP Limited.

That was it.

That was enough.

The past day's incidents had become too much. Trudy had somehow let go of the rungs and fallen to the bottom of the ladder, just where she had been six years ago. There was no other choice. Her company was on her back, the police would probably come looking for her regardless of the stupid moped, and she had become fairly sure that everyone who looked at her could read her like a book. Something bad was going to happen here if she didn't flee.

So she ran up the stairs and started packing her bags.

She wheeled her old friend out from under her bed. A big plastic suitcase; knackered but still holding up. Remnants of the past, everything it had taken to get here were etched into its grey body. There were great big dents in the corners. A bigger dent curved its side inwards, a reminder of where she had spent nights curled up. Bullet holes marked the other side, but they were more or less patched up with layers and layers of tape. She didn't like to think about those days, sleeping rough in her late teens, the police around every corner no matter where she tried to settle. She didn't like to consider how maybe she was heading back in that direction. The thought immobilised her, and she slumped in the middle of her packing, back against her shiny wooden bed. The last thing Trudy had ever wanted was to return to those troublesome times, even if they were miles more appealing than what had been before. For there was one place she knew she could never go back to, and while that stood, she'd always be running. She took a few deep breaths and released her plait. Her hair, crimped from the braid, fell around her shoulders, a warm and comforting curtain she hid behind to calm. Fleeing onto the streets was not an option. She hadn't spent years learning to stand alone just to cave into circumstance now. Carefully, she stood, so as not to send herself toppling over, and snatched her phone from where it had been slammed face-first onto her writer's desk. I really ought to be more careful with this thing, she thought as she slid open the screen, her thumb running over a shallow scratch on the glass. Her email inbox popped up first, unclosed, and that intimidating email from Emily Forrester tried to slap sense into her. To just apologise, blame it on that same paranoia that caused so many workers to refrain from clocking in. Surely, she had just feared being mauled to death by a cloaked shadow-creature and bottled it. But there was too much swarming her all at once, so she discarded the email – in fact, she took the liberty of sending right to her recycle bin – and then, getting into the swing of it, started scrolling through and removing all such junk from PP News. Anything from coworkers nagging her to stay after, work together, and get drinks. Any spam ads that automatically entered her inbox from PP, despite her repeatedly asking them to stop. All the way down to last May, a week after she left university and landed her internship, one which integrated her quickly into the company upon receiving the results of her degree. There were still bits and pieces from the University, congratulating her for completing those long three years of endless assignments. Careers advice. Reminders from a mass of companies that her student discount days were, sadly, over.

And a shiny, unopened message from her academic advisor.

Trudy hadn't utilised the existence of her academic advisor until her last year, when she was forced to consult with the kind middle-aged lady about her dissertation. To her surprise, it wasn't as bad as she'd built up in her head. It seemed not all of her seniors were twisted and evil, and actually maybe wanted to see her succeed. Mary Lancaster was her name, friendly on paper and in person. But as soon as Trudy had left university, she'd left it all in the past and neglected any further communication. Something compelled her to tap on Mary's email, maybe the same thing that sought a stabilising force in the form of familiarity during her tumultuously eventful day.

RE: Congratulations and good luck, Trudy!
Hello, and I hope you are doing well.

I know it hasn't been long since you and your peers finished – freedom! Wahoo J - but I thought I would check in to share with you something I think is right up your street. I know how adamant you are about starting work, and I admire your ethic, I truly do. I just think that a little time out would do you a world of good. And, of course, you deserve it! I hope it doesn't offend you that I took such a liberty, but I submitted an application in your name for the attached writer's retreat we talked about. It's postgraduate focused and – I hope you are still reading this!! – very prestigious. The mentors a quite well-renowned (in fact, I recall you mentioning studying a poem of Tawanda Mostyn's as part of your second-year work, though I wish we could have talked about it more!) and they are quite selective. You should know if you got in or not by January of next year, and (if you decided to go - fingers crossed on my side!!) would be off to the scenic coast in March for a couple of months.

Please give it some thought, I think you would really rather enjoy it. J

Take care and keep me updated,

Mary

Trudy felt a pang of regret at having not responded. It was shockingly... nice, particularly in comparison to her company's demanding message, and it made her well up a little. She shook her head, wiping her eyes with her jumper sleeve, and set about typing a reply.

RE: Follow up to RE: Congratulations and good luck, Trudy!
Hello.

My sincerest apologies for missing your previous communication. In truth, such a thing would typically be refused by me, but I find myself in an odd position where I actually crave the offer you suggested. I don't believe I was emailed, however. Might I ask if you know of any similar opportunities? Preferably those that take me far from the city? If not, no stress. I will wait for next year.

Trudy.

PS: I hope you also are taking care.

Trudy scrutinised her PS for some time. Was is appropriate? Had she typed it correctly? To escape the paradoxical train of thought, she simply outstretched her arm, covered her eyes with her hand and, peeking through her fingers, hit send. It was surprisingly releasing.

With a newfound email-sending courage, Trudy spent the next half-an-hour writing and re-writing and proof-reading and editing her resignation email. Unprofessional, sure, but she didn't have to bother with professionalisms if she was quitting.

And then, all that was left to do was wait.

In the following hours, Trudy packed to leave forever. Not that she packed all her things. She had done her fair share of packing in the past and knew what essentials she could cram into her suitcase and her slouching bag. She would wear several layers to travel in (though she wasn't even sure where she was going yet) and would stuff her pockets with this and that. Snacks. Water bottle. Water filter, because God knows the rivers in this country aren't safe to drink from. Cables on cables. Her big, hefty book. The one that didn't go anywhere she wasn't, if she could help it. In fact, she just had to check it was still in her bag. It was all her life was lived for, everything she ever needed to continue. Words on words, written with what felt like her own blood. It was as wide as her forearms, and as long as her calves. Once she knew it was there, it was slipped right back in after she'd planted a small kiss on its spine. The only things unpacked were those things that had to wait until the morning of (whenever that would be): toothbrush, hairbrush, phone, phone charger. Foody bits that could live in this house without being eaten for a few months.

5pm rolled around quickly. Trudy was lying on the floor in her hall on her back, looking up at the light fixture that looked like three crescent moons following one another. The skies had been too cloudy to watch the stars lately, but she had that problem solved too. All over the ceiling, visible only in the dark, were tiny blobs of glow-in-the-dark paint. Trudy had made her favourite constellations and had dotted shooting stars here and there so she would never run out of wishes. There, lying in the dark, she made one that she had made a million times before: Please let me come out of this alive. Sometimes, she wasn't sure if she lived because she was good at it, or if it was because her wishes were being granted. She always made sure to keep that one wish wished, just in case.