I used to run away constantly. Like, constantly. Like, once a week. Usually my parents would find me within an hour, they knew all the places I would head for; I was a predictable kid, I guess. They’d check the park at the end of the street, the ice cream shop at the bottom of the hill, the big pink house where I thought a princess lived (it was a retired accountant. Once she let me in and made me tea and called my parents to come pick me up.)
Once I made it all the way down to the beach. That time I’d been missing for four hours, Mom had called the cops, it was a whole thing. Apparently I’d caught a city bus even though I had no money and was in bare feet and a tutu, although I don’t remember it. I even made the nightly news.