I have to get out. I have to get out.
The warm tangerine walls suffocate the overabundant thoughts of a girl in distress.
Pedal.
The comfort of the circular and consistent motion of wheels against the pavement. Navigation and direction thrown to the wind.
The cliche of beach metaphors surround her. Water. A grain of sand. Waves. Beauty. Simplicity. All lost when muddled with angst.
Lord. God. Dear Heavenly Father. She prays trusting in something bigger than herself.
Despite how fast she pedals, the bike cannot keep up with the rhythm of her thoughts.
Her skirt flies up giving a show to those who pass by her. She doesn't even notice.
The determination clearly stated in the biting of her lip.
A black Dodge truck with an orange UT license plate whizzes by. For the first time in several hours the girl reconnects with her surroundings. She manages to catch the eye of the man driving the truck, and in that moment, he catches the cry in her eyes: help.