She used to run through the grass in the morning to escape him. He was all over that house, in every brick in the fireplace, and so she ran. She would stand on the railroad tracks, up the hill and past the treeline, and dare the wheels to run her over. In her faded, white flannel nightgown she would wait, shivering in the wet morning dew and calm, eyes and hair wild and watching. Sometimes she envied those girls who could just jump, run or slice. But she was too connected. She was too close to the earth, jumping and rolling away from the train, rolling in the wet grass. Soaked, dewy, grassy bare feet. That wasn't her. She would grow up and become a quiet, contained thing, writing and working and meeting the god on the shelf. But as the shivering 12 year old in flannel, she had wanted her body splattered all over that rusted steel, to be cleaned off in the rain.