The New York City bus passed by the farm every evening at 5:50. But it was safer maybe, to catch the morning bus to Los Angeles. Marcy thought about no snow, palm trees, and aqua-white surf on golden sand, but decided finally that without a car, it would be easier to live in New York.
Her husband wouldn’t be sober enough to find her note, much less understand it, until morning. She paper-clipped the note to her car title, endorsed over to him. The car was the only thing that was hers, and the only way to convince him that she was serious.
Marcy always waved at the bus driver, so she hoped if she waved big and pointed to her suitcase, that he’d stop on the side of the road to pick her up, and he did. Elk City was the next station, where she’d buy her ticket. In twenty-fours hours I’ll be safe, she thought, and she was.