ONE MORE THING. Perhaps she should stop at the outlet mall, on the way out of town. It wouldn’t put her too far behind. If she hurries. While driving, she pictures the list. A scrap of paper clipped inside her planner. Half the items still not crossed off. All the things she thought she would need for the conference. A writer’s workshop in Vermont. She still can’t believe she got in. She fretted over it, after being accepted. Would she be ready? But now, she thinks of posting a selfie on Facebook, in front of the famous inn with the tag, “Pinch Me.” When she gets there, in four and a half hours, the map on her phone estimates. But that’s too boastful, she decides. Going is all that matters. She doesn’t need anyone to know. The seemingly impossible feat was leaving. Her tires rolled away from the house, children waving from the porch. David, cheeks red, arm around Sally’s back. Lucy on her own, hair fluttering, giving a weak smile. The dog standing, too. Tail like a banner. Even the leaves seemed to say goodbye, as the car rushed past. Strange to be the one going away, this time. On the highway, the car picks up speed. The needle of the speedometer rises from seventy towards eighty. Is she fleeing? The momentary question thumps like a footfall outside the door at night. Of course not. But still. Maybe she shouldn’t stop. Some long-stretched arms might reach out, take her back. Like the rock in a slingshot, misfired.