I pressed clothes into her hands. She pulled them on over her pajamas, hands shaking, and I stuffed her feet into the nearest shoes without tying the laces.
The window in Becca’s room faced the backyard. I’d removed the screen dozens of times for sneaking out to meet friends—a skill I’d never imagined would matter beyond avoiding curfew. I popped it free and looked down at the eight-foot drop to the garden below.
I threw both our backpacks out first, then helped Becca through the window frame. She hesitated at the edge, looking down with visible fear—not fear of the height, but fear of everything the height represented: the fact that we were climbing out of our own house in the dark because our father had told us to run from our mother.
I gripped her wrists and lowered her as far as I could reach before letting go. She fell the remaining four feet with a muted thump that sounded explosively loud in the quiet night.
I followed, dropping and rolling, my ankle twisting slightly on landing but holding my weight. Becca was staring at me with questions written across her face, but I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the back fence.
