The man doesn’t speak to me as we drive. I don’t know his name, but he knows mine. He knows where we’re stopping, but I don’t. I know that once we stop, he will leave and I will be on my own. Blessed in my solace, at last, free to do what I wish away from my tormentor. For too long he had reign over me, and now I can breathe the fresh air of another day.

I eye the driver from my peripheral vision and see that he is tapping his leg along to the beat of the road, which is not well-paved. He deals in escapism, giving people fake names and new careers. Helping people hide, something that the government tries to do but fails.

He stops at an intersection in a residential neighborhood and cocks his head to the side. “Here. House 1219. Good luck.”

I thank him and exit, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. It contains all of my belongings that I was able to bring: a copy of my favorite book, a pencil, some knick-knacks, and a teddy bear I’ve had since I was young. There’s also a decent amount of cash that I’ve saved up.

1219. The number of hope, of a new beginning. A number whose impact I don’t know the gravity of until I knock on the door.

My tormentor answers, grabs me, and pulls me inside before I can scream. I should have known it wouldn’t be this easy to flee.