text: The tree house. Her tree house. There, she could go anywhere, say anything, be anyone. It was her sanctuary against the world outside. She thought of it more as a tree palace when she grasped the weathered wooden ladder to ascend into her private world. The floor gently bent under her weight and the rusted tin roof rattled with the breeze while the oak limbs rustled a polite discussion of the late summer season, accenting its message with the occasional acorn drop. The smell was delicious, like a mildly mildewed forest mixed with the warmth of sunshine and fresh grass. When her father mowed, it just meant extra grass seasoning. There was also a peppery metallic odor from the roof and nails, but only if you concentrated extra hard and didn’t let the birds distract you with their disgruntled chatter. She reviewed her collection of miscellaneous items found around the neighborhood proudly displayed on an unevenly installed, water-logged shelf. She had her chipped, beaded necklace discovered behind the Cottingham’s shed and an old, Zippo lighter decorated with a bald eagle clutching the American flag. She had found that near the shore of Lake Moody but had given up on trying to light it. Her prized possession was a frayed pink cat collar complete with a bell which made the most pleasant sound, like a polite chime announcing that an adorable kitty was coming to play. That one was more personal. More painful. She laid on her old Benji sleeping bag that was handed down to her from Grandma. Grandma was long gone, and she had never even seen “Benji,” but the dog on the bag smiled in a way that only dogs can do. The sunlight shown through the one window, perpetually open, and down into a large, clear, green jug that was filling up with coins, snail shells, and insect exoskeletons. She glanced annoyingly at the newspaper article shoved over a nail. The girl looked like her. Too much like her. She had blacked out the name because it was too similar to her own. She closed her eyes so she could leave and be anywhere else but here, but she did not leave. She was still in the tree house. She shut her eyes again and pictured that imaginary tree palace climbing up into the heavens. She had never been able to see all the rooms inside because they were infinite, always changing. The massive limbs held a bounty of leaves that merged into the clouds. Birds circled and called to her as an army of cats rubbed on her legs lovingly, encouraging her to explore. She reached up to touch the lowest rung of the golden ladder and found herself catapulted back into reality. She was engulfed in nothingness. Empty. A moment of panic gripped her chest before the walls were back in focus. Her jug, her shelf, the newspaper, her lighter. She squirmed into the sleeping bag and zipped it up until just her face was poking out. Her father’s voice was near, calling her name. She was not ready to leave. She shut her eyes tighter until the lids were pressing so hard they began to ache from the strain, but she was finally fully transported. The palace doors were thrown open and she was greeted by her best friend in this world, Penelope. Penelope was strong enough to push those heavy doors. Penelope was smart, and fast, and tall, and beautiful. Everything she would never be. “We’ll ride horses today,” said Penelope. “Which color do you want?” She briefly imagined that scene in “The Wizard of Oz” when the horse changes color and thought to herself, “All of them.” Teams of horses rose out of the floor and Penelope giggled. “Here you go. Have your pick. Today is your day.” Penelope looked up into the sun, but there was no sun here. The light was shining from everywhere and nowhere. She walked through the throngs of manes and tails with each muzzle innocently nuzzling her, inquiring if they would be the one, her choice, but it was the appaloosa standing alone and aloof that grabbed her attention; its spotted coat randomly dappled as if a rogue paint brush splattered its skin like a careless afterthought. She apprehensively approached the mare and the horse appeared disinterested and mildly irritated to be enduring the intense scrutiny of a human child. She knew that horses often have this attitude when they are not being overly affectionate, much like cats behave. It made her love them more. After allowing the mare to assess her, she ran her hand up its forehead and down its crest, delicately entwining her fingers through its mane and onto its withers. The mare shook her head impatiently and snorted as if to say, “Make up your mind, kid. Are we going to ride or not?” Penelope brought a step stool over and set it on the floor so she could safely mount. “You picked Freckles. She’s my favorite.” She threw her leg over the mare’s back and grabbed a handful of mane to steady herself as she pulled to the center. She felt Freckles shift on her feet, every muscle flexing, anxious to move. She squeezed with her knees and the mare ignited like a flame. The power she felt was beyond any tangible emotion she had ever encountered. She was free. Unburdened. Alive. Then her mother screamed. It was not a normal type of scream, the kind that calls you to the table for dinner. This one sounded urgent. Full of emotion. Despair. She was back in reality, but not the one she wanted. She knew where she was. She could smell the antiseptic afterthoughts of the room she refused to view. “PENELOPE!” That was her friend’s name, not hers. That was the name in the newspaper article on the nail in her sanctuary. “LOCAL KID....” Lucky for her, she wasn’t local. She was far away. In her tree palace. She had no name. No place. No time. Her eyes were still closed, but she couldn’t return. The appaloosa mare was gone. The palace was gone. She just wanted to keep riding the horse. Her horse. Her Freckles. In the background, the limbs were busy discussing the summer. They were loud. The tin roof was rattling with the intensity of the wind, and it was more insistent with each breath she took, but it was slowing. Less forceful. Less meaningful. Her mind clouded. She couldn’t think of anything except that girl in the photo on the cover of that paper. Penelope. Everyone felt sorry for Penelope. She had it bad, that girl. Never see her teen years, Penelope. Never graduate. Never get married. Never have kids. Never, never, never, never. At least she had her tree house. And her lighter. And her jug of littered memories. Her mother again. “Is she.....”