She sleeps in a glass room in the backyard. Back here, behind the house, she can't hear the knocks on the door and so can wake on her own time, though time is not hers anymore. She has thought of her bed as a coffin enough times that it is one, her bed a sun-baked rectangle of earth surrounded by planters. Every night, she leaves the glass room and threads through the yard, car keys in hand. And she drives.
Read the rest of "The Vanished Hitchhiker" by Erin Pringle-Toungate at Girls With Insurance
