My hiding place growing up was a pinewood prison, shady and unspoken of. My nook was crammed behind my air conditioning vent and a gutter, between my fence and the highway that ran beside my house. I remember “running away” like most kids do, but fleeing by foot in Dallas was a bit more complicated than ambling the avenues of Manhattan. It’s considered odd in Dallas to walk from place to place, or even to use the DART Rail or bus. Commuting without a car is “sketch,” as some would say, and I quickly realized how vulnerable I was when I ran away as a flimsy six-year-old.
