Abandoned Places

Nola and I stayed in the shed for three nights. On our second night, I cut and dyed her hair. We burned her homemade clothes in the park shelter's outdoor fireplace. We watched YouTube videos to learn how hikers pack for the Appalachian Trail to minimize the amount of stuff we'd need to carry from place to place. We decided if anyone asked, Granola and Rags wouldn't cut it for names. So, in honor of our first meeting, Granola became Nola Parks, and I decided on Sarah Ragsdale. 

We embarked on a risky adventure on our third and final night, walking across town to the 24-hour truck stop. The fear of anyone local recognizing either of us was palpable. We exhaled in relief when we made it all the way there without hearing the "woop-woot" of sirens accompanied by the strobe of neon blue lights. The truck stop, a treasure trove of supplies, offered us backpacks and a two-person tent for nights when we couldn't find shelter. The world was our campsite, as we could always find some woods to camp for the night. We prepared for any weather with ponchos and stocked up on beef jerky, Slim Jims, trail mix, and water bottles. 

We meticulously prepared for our journey, returning to the shed and packing our bags. With a clear plan plotted on Google Maps, we were ready to execute our escape. Our strategy was to walk under the cover of darkness each night, finding an abandoned place to sleep by morning. This careful planning would keep us mostly out of sight of the public, enhancing our chances of a successful escape from the lives we had been living. 

We would stick to the rural roads, where the whole town is inside and asleep by nine. We wouldn't stay in these small towns. I learned from summers at my Aunt Tara's house in Strawberry, Arkansas, that everyone in a small town knows everyone. Strangers stick out like a sore thumb and become the talk of the local gas station until everyone's interest is piqued. 

We left the shed on our fourth night together. We had decided to make our way westward across North Carolina. We would stop only when we reached Asheville. I figured we had a pretty good shot at blending in with the hipsters and maybe even finding a few odd jobs to add cash to our steadily dwindling and meager resources. 

My Google search results show that the average person can walk about 20 miles daily. There are enough college campuses along the route that I tell Nola I could convince some innocent frat boy to take us back to our campus, thus getting us along our route a little faster.

"I'll do this by telling him we came to a party with our friends, but they left with some boy, and now we're stranded," I tell her. "Every straight male on the planet has a savior complex. We'll just play into the damsel in distress stereotype." I figure if we make it to Greensboro, we can quickly get from UNCG to Wake Forest. 

Nola is flabbergasted every time a lie rolls off my tongue so quickly. "How'd you learn to do that?" she asks as we walk in the shadows of Highway 70 toward Greensboro. I'm scared to death that everyone will see right through us."

"I don't know. I don't think about it, really." I say, contemplating her question. After walking for a few moments in silence and turning it over in my mind, I finally say, "I guess it's like that poem. Children learn what they live."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Well, it's kind of like how you think you'll give yourself away somehow because you were trained early that God doesn't like liars. I bet you could recite all ten commandments by age four." I laugh. "But for me, as much as the preacher and my Sunday School teacher tried to instill this character into my psyche, I knew there were some things I had to lie about."

"What could you possibly have to lie about at age four?" Nola scoffs incredulously.

"Oh, I dunno," I say and hear my tone getting more defensive with every syllable. "Maybe that new daddy comes in my room at night when mommy goes to work. Or that the bruise on my leg isn't from falling off my bike. Maybe it's the constant lie of convincing everyone I'm okay, normal even, just your run-of-the-mill, Uggs-wearing, pumpkin spice latte-sipping basic white girl because, my God, who wants to be that girl in high school? Like I'm the one who's dirty and damaged goods somehow? Like, somehow, it's my fault that my mom married that monster and had three more kids. Now she's crippled by her own damn fears about financial insecurity for my siblings and refuses to leave."

"Hey, Sarah," Nola says quietly, unsure, "I didn't mean to make you feel attacked. I just thought maybe I needed to learn that skill if we're going to stay safe out here. I don't want to be the one to give us away."

"Oh," I say, feeling more than a little embarrassed about my outburst. "Sorry, Nola, I'm used to defending myself. My dad was always watching for me to have one toe out of step. I didn't mean to yell at you. Maybe we should change the subject and rehearse our cover story till it rolls off your tongue as easily as mine."

So, there we were, walking in the dark, repeating the story to ourselves until we both told it so comfortably that anyone would believe it. We were Nola Parks and Sarah Ragsdale, best friends from a little bitty town east of Greensboro that you've never heard of because no one has. We were early graduates, finishing high school in our first semester of senior year. We had been accepted at schools across the country from one another. We had deferred enrollment for a gap year to spend together, hiking the Appalachian Trail, our last adventure before moving hundreds of miles from one another. 

Finally, we made it to Asheville, found an abandoned hunting shack in the woods, and set out to make it habitable. There was an old pump well out back and an outhouse. Inside was a rustic table and two chairs that looked built by hand. A full-size bed with an old patchwork quilt was in the back corner. A potbelly stove was in the center of the room, its flute sticking out through the roof. This stove served a dual purpose: to provide warmth and prepare food. A rick of wood was in the basket by the wood stove, and cast-iron cooking utensils were suspended from hooks in the low rafters.

We settled into a routine of hiking to town in the early morning and only returning after nightfall. We had agreed to treat the cabin like the campsites along the AT, removing any trace of ourselves each morning. A few yards from the cabin, we dug a small rock shelter on the side of a hill. It was here that we left our backpacks and belongings every day.

We spent our time visiting the college campus. Most people don't realize that college libraries are usually open to the public. We couldn't check materials out, but we could read anything on the shelves and use the free computers. Luckily, Nola had the basic skills required to navigate the internet. I showed her how to create her own Google account, thus giving her an email address. 

We purchased a throw-away phone from Walmart and the cheapest phone card. After setting the phone up with our new Google accounts, we got a Cash App account, which I loaded with the remainder of our cash. We made flyers advertising our dog-walking services and posted them on every public bulletin board within walking distance of campus. We also offered general housekeeping services.

"Believe me, some overworked, underpaid professor will need a cheap housekeeper or dog walker," I reassure Nola as we hang our flyers. "My mom made a small income from running errands and babysitting for professors in Chapel Hill. Daycare provider by day, personal assistant by night. I used to blame her for being gone and leaving us with him all the time, but I guess somebody had to pay the bills. Dad sure as hell wasn't going to hold down a real job any longer than the 90-day probation period."

Nola mostly nods and follows my plan. I keep reminding myself that she's never been off the compound. She gets mad when I call it 'the compound.' I ask her if she's more comfortable with the word cult.

"No!" she says, exasperated with my nonsense. That sounds worse! Community sounds better, like like-minded people living in the same neighborhood." 

"More like a commune, you mean." I joke with her. "Like, c'mon Nola, you really think God or whoever is in charge up there cares about how you wear your hair? Or what clothes you choose to wear? With seven billion people on the planet and all the wars, hunger, natural disasters, and political shitshows, you think God is just laser-focused on your tiny little sins?"

"Honestly, I don't know what I believe, Sarah." She takes a deep breath. "I'm not sure I even believe in God, or at least in the way my parents have portrayed God to me."

This admission leads us down a rabbit hole that occupies the rest of our night. We search for contradictions to the Bible in other Abrahamic belief systems. We read the Wikipedia synopses of the Pagan belief systems, from Atheism to Witchcraft. We add the Peace Pagoda in Newport, Tennessee, to our must-visit list. 

The weeks flew by in Asheville, and we had settled into our daily routine of cleaning houses in the morning and walking dogs in the afternoons. It hadn't taken long for the cell phone to start chirping with calls and texts for our cleaning services. We made enough money to feed ourselves and started saving for when we would need to move on. 

One morning, when we arrived to clean a client's home, she was at home for the day, grading papers. She was sitting at the kitchen counter sipping coffee when I startled her by opening the backdoor. 

"So sorry, Professor!" I say, "I didn't mean to startle you. We're here to clean but can return later if now isn't convenient for you."

"No, no, girls, it's fine." She says. "I just forgot you were coming. I'm usually long gone before you arrive. That reminds me, I've been meaning to thank you for all your help. I don't know what I would do without you girls this semester. This place would be a disaster."

"We're happy to help," I say, trying to leave the room before she can continue the conversation. I tell myself I'm just keeping things professional, but I know I'm using that as an excuse. I'm afraid she'll ask too many questions. She gives us access to her home every week and might want more information on who she trusts.

"What's your major?" she calls out from the counter.

"Oh, I'm not a student," I say.

"So, you girls are locals?" she asks.

"Not exactly," I say. "We're taking a gap year to hike the AT. My grandpa has an old hunting cabin he's letting us use to make money for the hike. Our parents said if we wanted to take a gap year, we had to find a way to finance it ourselves. So here we are."

"The two of you are hiking the trail alone?" she asks with doubt.

"Yeah, it's no big deal; we're country girls; we've been in the woods our whole lives," I lie.

"You're a lot braver than I was at your age," she laughs. "I cried when my parents dropped me off at college. I can't imagine hiking the AT with only my best friend at 18. We wouldn't have made it a whole week."

She goes back to grading her papers as I go from room to room, cleaning the house. When Nola and I were done, she thanked us and offered us a ride to our next client's home. We decline with an excuse about needing the practice walking for the trail.

"Man," Nola breathes when we reach the end of the professor's driveway. "She was making me nervous with all the questions."

"Is that why you left me so suddenly to sort laundry?" I laugh. "The trick is to act like you belong, Nols. She's got her own life to live to be too concerned with ours. She just wanted to meet her housekeepers, that's all. Besides, I didn't lie; I just somewhat embellished the truth. We plan to hike the trail after we save a little money."

"I guess," Nola agrees nervously. She still looks over her shoulder often, convinced her evangelical father is going to swoop her up like a hawk. I try to assuage her fears by reminding her that he wouldn't recognize her if he saw her.

"The girl he's looking for has light brown hair that falls to her waist. She wouldn't be caught dead in a tie-dye T-shirt, ripped jeans, makeup, and Crocs. He's looking for the girl too stupid to know anything about life outside the compound—not an independent world explorer such as yourself," I tell her.

"Can you call us world explorers if we haven't even left the state?" Nola asks cynically.

"Of course I can," I say. "Just because we haven't yet made it out of North Carolina doesn't mean we won't. The world is ours for the taking. And you know what they say, every journey starts with a single step. Now, get to stepping up that hill. I'm hungry, and it's your night to cook."

Together, we climb the hill. So far, not a single soul has paid any attention to us. We've fallen into a comfortable routine, and the hunting shack is starting to feel like home. We're still careful to remove our belongings daily, but it feels unnecessary. We've never seen anyone out here. The cabin is on the side of the mountain at the end of a very steep climb. I don't know how long Nola and I will have the safety of our little shack, but for now, we're safe from the monsters back home. If our situation becomes compromised, we'll hit the trail and keep making it westward into Tennessee.