Bat Escape Quotes

It's time for a story. I know, I know, the night is noisy. Don't be afraid. The storm rises on its hind legs, bats our tiny house in its paws - but the smaller a mouse is, the more likely iy is to escape. Here, we slip through the cracks of the world.

Maybe like the bat in the birdcage, Gavriel had been waiting for dark, waiting to get out of the chains, drink Aidan’s blood, and escape. But when she showed up, he figured he could use them for a ride through daylight, so long as he seemed harmless enough to need saving. A chill crept up her spine.

The universe, the landscape, it is all changing. It has not changed enough-that is a given- but it is changing, and evolution is something to embrace. Racism is alive and well and we still encounter microaggressions on a regular basis, bat at least now we can go home and close the door and enjoy some entertainment, see ourselves on-screen, imagine ourselves as superheroes and goddesses. Before, you got hassled, you went home, and you had nothing. That's the difference

the foot of the downhill Eighties lay the Hudson, as dense as mercury. On the points of radio towers in New Jersey red lights like small hearts beat or tingled. In midstreet, on the benches, old people: on faces, on heads, the strong marks of decay: the big legs of women and blotted eyes of men, sunken mouths and inky nostrils. It was the normal hour for bats swooping raggedly (Ludeyville), or pieces of paper (New York) to remind Herzog of bats. An escaped balloon was fleeing like a sperm, black and quick into the orange dust of the west. He crossed the street, making a detour to avoid a fog of grilled chicken and sausage. The crowd was traipsing over the broad sidewalk. Moses took a keen interest in the uptown public, its theatrical spirit, its performers—the transvestite homosexuals painted with great originality, the wigged women, the lesbians looking so male you had to wait for them to pass and see them from behind to determine their true sex, hair dyes of every shade.

I’m here to claim you.” The last thing he’d expected was for her to hurl a teaspoon at his forehead. Shit, that actually hurt. “Claim me? Now there’s a fucking joke. I’d rather French kiss a goddamn barracuda than mate with you!” Nick cursed in surprise as Shaya lifted one of the wooden breakfast stools and launched it at him. He barely ducked in time to dodge it. When he stood tall again, it was to see another stool coming at him. He caught that one, using it as a shield against the next stool. Then she was racing out of the room. Before she could escape from the house, Nick dashed after her. But she didn’t open the front door. She reached behind the rack of coats in the hallway, pulled out a baseball bat, turned sharply, and swung it at his head. Motherfucker. He jumped backward, barely avoiding it. “Dammit, Shay!” Where had his sweet mate gone? Having a bad temper was one thing, but the female in front of him was a merciless psycho. Proving that, she swung the bat again—this time at his abdomen. Although he jerked away, he only managed to dull the impact of her swing. It still connected hard with his abdomen, making him instinctively bend over as the breath whooshed out of him. That was when the bat came flying at his head again.

It was not difficult to find. One floor down, pandemonium reigned. Somebody (and Harry had a very shrewd idea who) had set off what seemed to be an enormous crate of enchanted fireworks. Dragons comprised entirely of green and gold sparks were soaring up and down the corridors, emitting loud fiery blasts and bangs as they went; shocking-pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter were whizzing lethally through the air like so many flying saucers; rockets with long tails of brilliant silver stars were ricocheting off the walls; sparklers were writing swear words in midair of their own accord; firecrackers were exploding like mines everywhere Harry looked, and instead of burning themselves out, fading from sight or fizzling to a halt, these pyrotechnical miracles seemed to be gaining in energy and momentum the longer he watched. Filch and Umbridge were standing, apparently transfixed in horror, halfway down the stairs. As Harry watched, one of the larger Catherine wheels seemed to decide that what it needed was more room to manoeuvre; it whirled towards Umbridge and Filch with a sinister ‘wheeeeeeeeee’. They both yelled with fright and ducked, and it soared straight out of the window behind them and off across the grounds. Meanwhile, several of the dragons and a large purple bat that was smoking ominously took advantage of the open door at the end of the corridor to escape towards the second floor. ‘Hurry, Filch, hurry!’ shrieked Umbridge, ‘they’ll be all over the school unless we do something – Stupefy!’ A jet of red light shot out of the end of her wand and hit one of the rockets. Instead of freezing in midair, it exploded with such force that it blasted a hole in a painting of a soppy-looking witch in the middle of a meadow; she ran for it just in time, reappearing seconds

I noticed some scratch marks and faded blood stains high up on a wall. “What happened there?” “An inmate must have tried to escape. I saw a guy use two suction devices like the ones used to carry glass sheets to help lever himself up. He reached half way before being spotted by a blue shirt.” “What happened to him?” “The blue shirt called a guard. He was ordered to come down, but didn’t. They shot him in the leg, he fell and later in the cell, he removed a blade from a disposable razor, slashed his left wrist then wrote a suicide note on the wall with his right hand – in his own blood. Suicide is really common in here and nobody bats an eyelid.

Blyton is not demanding. She is not an expander of minds like any one of the imaginatively and linguistically gifted authors already mentioned or still to be discussed. Her great gift lies in proving beyond doubt to children that reading can be fun, and reliably so. That the marks on the page will translate into life and colour and movement with ease. This is a thing you can master, a foundation upon which you can build, and also a retreat into which you can escape. She makes it all possible, time and time again. It was for this reason that Roald Dahl – whose own professed primary aim in writing for children was always to entertain them and thus induct them into the world of books – went to bat for her when he was on the 1988 Committee on English in the National Curriculum. He fell out with the rest of the board on the issue of whether her books should be welcomed in schools. Despite being no fan of either the work or the woman (he played bridge with her once and said afterwards that she had the mind of a child) he thought they should be embraced because they got children reading. The rest of the board disagreed and Dahl resigned his place.

It was a brave new world that I found myself in. At night I would hear the sounds of the fruit bats as they came into the trees. Also in the mix were the strange, far-off grunts of the koalas as they sang out their mating calls. Herds of wild pigs passed right behind the tent. Venturing outside in the middle of the night with my dunny roll to go use a bush was a daunting experience. Steve was a natural in front of the camera. John had to give him only one important piece of advice. “Stevo,” John instructed, “there are three people in this documentary. There’s you, Terri, and the camera. Treat the camera just like another person.” Steve’s energy and enthusiasm took over. He completely relaxed, and he managed to just be himself--which was true of his entire career. This wasn’t just a film trip, it was also our honeymoon. Steve would sometimes escape the camera crew and take us up a tributary to be alone. We watched the fireflies come out. I’d never seen fireflies in Oregon. The magical little insects glowed everywhere, in the bushes and in the air. The darker it got, the brighter their blue lights burned on and off. I had arrived in a fairyland.

He lurched forward to correct the slant of her glass. She seemed unaware of anything beyond the sexual energy blazing between them. She blushed at his action and straightened against the gold upholstery. He was a cad to delight in her confusion, but she had him in such a maelstrom, he was devilish tickled not to suffer alone. Her eyes were glazed, her cheeks flushed. She licked her lips, leaving them glistening and, oh, so kissable. Her voice was husky. "Sir, I..." Damn this. He stood and prowled across to retrieve her glass before she spilled brandy over her pretty dress. Her fingers trembled as she pulled free. "Shh." He placed the glass on the side table. Ignoring her discouraging posture, he started to take down her hair. She batted at his hands. "Merrick! Stop it." "Calm, bella." He stood before her, blocking any escape. "I won't be calm," she snapped, trying ineffectually to stop him spreading the mane of hair over her shoulders. It crinkled after its confinement and caught the firelight, shining gold and brown and red, the rich colors of autumn.

I turned the other way and headed back towards the stairs to find Darcy and get the hell away from the Acrux Manor. Hooking up with Caleb Altair had not been on my list of things to do tonight but it hadn’t been the worst thing I’d ever done either. I tried to wipe the smirk from my face as I remembered the way his hands had felt on my body and navigated my way back through the sprawling manor. The place was seriously massive and I hadn’t realised quite how far I’d run in my bid to escape from Caleb. I took a few wrong turns before finally finding the stairs and heading down to the huge door that led outside. Darcy and Orion were standing out on the gravel drive, looking in opposite directions to each other. “Hey,” I called as I moved to join them, wrapping my arms around myself against the chill of the evening. Darcy glanced at Orion then hurried toward me with a taut expression. I raised a questioning eyebrow at her and her cheeks heated a little in response. “Where have you been?” she asked, eyeing my hair with her mystical twin senses tingling. “Oh, I erm-” “With who?” she demanded, her eyes widening. I glanced at Orion awkwardly and he rolled his eyes before stalking away from us further down the drive. “It’s not a big deal,” I said as Darcy waited for her answer expectantly. “Seriously, it was just a bit of fun.” “Well I’m guessing this bit of fun has a name,” she teased. I sighed in defeat, ready to admit to yet another Tory’s bad choice in men moment. “Caleb.” Orion turned to look back at me with a raised eyebrow and I cursed his damn Vampire ears. I should have realised he’d still be listening in. Nosey asshole. “But Tory, he’s an Heir!”Darcy spluttered before she could stop herself. I dropped my eyes guiltily and she quickly reined in the saucer eyes and battered down the judgement. “I mean, I get it, he’s stupidly hot and everything,” she hedged quickly. “I’m just worried about you. What if he’s up to something?” I snorted a laugh. “Don’t worry about it Darcy, I’m not falling for him. It was just a mutually beneficial moment of madness.” “Okay, good,” she said with relief. Then her eyes sparkled with mischief as she dropped her voice. “So how was it?” Orion cleared his throat and I scowled at him. “I’ll tell you later when there are less nosey Vampires using their bat ears around us,” I said. Darcy giggled in response, looking over at Orion who didn’t even bother to pretend he hadn’t been listening to us. (tory)

single tear escapes and I bat it away, ripping open one of the scabs along my cheek. A trickle of blood follows as the next name is called, but I let that one stain me.

A single tear escapes and I bat it away, ripping open one of the scabs along my cheek. A trickle of blood follows as the next name is called but I let that one stain me.

I cannot now recall exactly what creatures I saw on that visit to the Antwerp Nocturama, but there were probably bats and jerboas from Egypt and the Gobi Desert, native European hedgehogs and owls, Australian opossums, pine martens, dormice, and lemurs, leaping from branch to branch, darting back and forth over the grayish-yellow sandy ground, or disappearing into a bamboo thicket. The only animal which has remained lingering in my memory is the raccoon. I watched it for a long time as it sat beside a little stream with a serious expression on its face, washing the same piece of apple over and over again, as if it hoped that all this washing, which went far beyond any reasonable thoroughness, would help it to escape the unreal world in which it had arrived, so to speak, through no fault of its own. Otherwise, all I remember of the denizens of the Nocturama is that several of them had strikingly large eyes, and the fixed, inquiring gaze found in certain painters and philosophers who seek to penetrate the darkness which surrounds us purely by means of looking and thinking.

We would hide him in the attic if we could,” replied Mildred, recovering fastest, “with the bats and broken furniture, but he keeps escaping.

Uh . . . am I missing something?” Blake looked a little smug as he glanced at his watch, then the sky. “Nope, give it a couple minutes. We got here just in time.” Aaron, his sexuality, and the fact that Blake had gotten jealous over my flaming gay friend completely forgotten, I looked at the sky, then pulled out my phone to check the time. There was nothing special about the time from what I could tell. As for the sky, it was nearly dusk, and although it was beautiful I didn’t know why that was anything worth noting either. Glancing at the people and the street around us, I turned and saw the street sign and did a double take. We were on Congress Avenue. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no!” I started backing up but ended up against Blake’s chest. His arms circled around me, effectively keeping me there. I felt his silent laughter. “I take it you know about this then. Ever seen it?” “No, and there’s a reason. I’m terrified of—” Just then, close to a million bats took flight from underneath the bridge. A small shriek escaped my lips and I clamped my hands over my mouth, like my sound would attract the bats to me. There was nothing silent about his next laugh. Blake tightened his arms around me and I leaned into him more. I’d like to say it was purely because my biggest fear was flying out around me, but I’d be lying if I said his musky cologne, strong arms, and chest had nothing to do with it either. This was something I’d wanted for years, and I almost couldn’t believe that I was finally there, in his arms. I continued to watch in utter horror and slight fascination as the stream of bats, which seemed to never end, continued to leave the shelter of the bridge and fly out into the slowly darkening sky. Minutes later, Blake leaned in and put his lips up against my ear. “Was that really so bad?” Forcing my hand from my mouth, I exhaled shakily and shook my head. “Not as bad as I’d imagined. Doesn’t change the fact that they are ugly and easily the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.” “But now you can say you’ve faced one of your fears.” “The biggest.” “See?” He let go of me and started walking again in the direction we’d come from.

Well then, Juliet, since you can't find anything funny about our predicament, let's see what Charlotte can do," he announced with a flippant, offhand charm. And then, before she could protest, he plucked the baby from her arms, laid her on the bed, and tickled her until she batted at his hands and began shrieking with delight. "See? Charlotte thinks it's funny, don't you, Charlie-girl?" The baby, who obviously adored him, gurgled and squealed, and Juliet found herself staring at the tender picture the two of them made; he, so tall and strong and masculine, her daughter, so tiny and helpless. She swallowed, hard. There was something deep and moving in this powerful image of Lord Gareth de Montforte as a father — a role that seemed to come as easily to him as flight to a bird. Her heart beat faster as she finally acknowledged what she'd been afraid to admit all along. She desired him. Desired him so badly it scared her. He glanced over at her, grinning. She shook her head and folded her arms, feigning annoyance but unable to prevent the growing amusement from sparking her eyes. Then he bent over Charlotte, his nose nearly touching hers, a few locks of hair tumbling over his brow and brushing the baby's forehead. He put his fingers into the corners of his mouth and pulled his cheeks wide, all the while making an absurd gurgling noise and glancing playfully at Juliet out of the corner of his eye to ensure that she was watching, too. He looked completely ridiculous. Worse, he knew he looked completely ridiculous and reveled in it. Unbidden, a burst of laughter escaped Juliet, mingling with Charlotte's happy shrieks. Letting go of his cheeks, Gareth laughed right along with them, a big, happy sound that brightened the room as the candles never could have done. It was warm laughter, family laughter, the kind of laughter that Juliet had never expected to share in ever again. Something

the falcon approached nearer to him, lose his nerve and plummet down in a vain effort to reach mother earth and the sanctuary of his burrow? Field glasses were now out for those who needed them, and up and down the line excited exclamations—in two languages—were running. ‘Oh! He can’t make it.’ ‘Yes he can, he can.’ ‘Only a little way to go now.’ ‘But look, look, the falcon is gaining on him.’ And then, suddenly, only one bird was to be seen against the cloud. ‘Well done! Well done! Shahbash! Shahbash!’ The owl had made it, and while hats were being waved and hands were being clapped, the falcon in a long graceful glide came back to the semul tree from which he had started. The reactions of human beings to any particular event are unpredictable. Fifty-four birds and four animals had been shot that morning—and many more missed—without a qualm or the batting of an eyelid. And now, guns, spectators, and mahouts were unreservedly rejoicing that a ground owl had escaped the talons of a peregrine falcon.

When I was 11 it was spelled with a Big I. That was how I was taught it. How autocorrect corrected it. Like god to God. It was a place to visit. A proper noun. The Internet. The thinspo forums and videos of Saddam’s execution and the pics from that bat mitzvah I wasn’t invited to. I could go there and I went there that day after school on my clunky white laptop. I went there and I never came back. I went there because it was a world to escape into. I was Lucy walking through the wardrobe. I walked through the fur coats and when I turned around to face the door it was gone. It was like coming a long way through a dark tunnel and turning around to look at the speck of light from which I came, but there was no light. No opening on either side. No sun forcing its way through. No oncoming train. No place from which I came. The tunnel was and always will be my world.

But then, on a brisk February evening my junior year, I attended a free yoga class at the Harvard Divinity School Andover Chapel. I came in fully expecting to do cat, cow, and child’s pose. Our instructor, Nicholas, who was also a graduate student there, had us on our backs with taut abs, legs held in the air in a ninety-degree position, neck lifted off the ground, hands stretched above our heads. I had become the sleeping dragon. One minute in, my body was trembling. You can’t. I told myself I could. You can’t. I opened my eyes and saw everyone else peacefully holding their pose. This voice yelling at me wasn’t my own. So where was it coming from? You can’t. It was Hang telling me to dump my elementary school best friends who still played with toy horses at thirteen. He said I needed to be more strategic about my social ranking. You can’t be friends with them. My sister excluding me from her life when we became teenagers. You can’t hang out with us. Ba calling me pathetic when I told him I wasn’t pursuing med school. You can’t even try because you’re too dumb. I screamed, You can’t, right back inside of my head, telling all of them what I never had the courage to say. My body shuddered as the rage escaped my body like bats flying out from a cave. Hot tears fell from the sides of my eyes into the chapel carpet floor. And then I heard a clear voice inside of me speak. It was not mine, it was someone else’s. “All those times you’ve felt unloved or alone, you weren’t. God, through the presence of the body, has always been there for you.” Who was this voice? And how could my body be the key to loving myself? My body was always something I had seen as an inconvenience, a detached thing I had to fix. But tonight, I felt welcome to get to know my body.

It is true, as he said, that as a teenager, having schooled himself in the art of war, he had fought against the Spanish in the Low Countries, thereafter had seen service in France, toured the Mediterranean on a piratical merchant vessel, and finally had joined the Austrian forces fighting the Turks. In Transylvania he had killed and perhaps had beheaded three Turkish officers in dramatic jousting duels (a feat he later blazoned on his coat of arms), was captured and enslaved by the Turks, but after noting carefully the way of life of the Turks, he managed to escape by murdering his owner with a threshing bat, and then made his way back to western Europe via Russia, Poland, and the German and Czech lands. Failing to find further military employment either in Europe or North Africa, he returned to England in 1604 where, through Gosnold, he was caught up in the plans for the colonization of Virginia.

(The distribution of playgrounds Moses constructed) was not at all even. The areas of the maps on which the dots were clustered most thickly corresponded in the main to those areas inhabited by families that were well-to-do or at least "comfortable." The areas of the maps on which the dots were sprinkled most thinly corresponded in part to undeveloped outlying areas of the city that did not really need playgrounds, but they corresponded also to some of the city's most congested areas, to the tenement neighborhoods and slums inhabited by families that were poor—to areas that needed playgrounds desperately. Most of Robert Moses' neighborhood playgrounds had, in other words, been built in the neighborhoods that needed playgrounds least. Few of the playgrounds had been built in the neighborhoods that needed playgrounds most. The areas of the maps on which the dots were sprinkled most thinly of all corresponded to those areas of the city inhabited by its 400,000 Negroes. Robert Moses built 255 playgrounds in New York City during the 1930's. He built one playground in Harlem. (...) “After a building program that had tripled the city's supply of playgrounds, there was still almost no place for approximately 200,000 of the city's children—the 200,000 with black skin—to play in their own neighborhoods except the streets or abandoned, crumbling, filthy, looted tenements stinking of urine and vomit; or vacant lots carpeted with rusty tin cans, jagged pieces of metal, dog feces and the leavings, spilling out of rotting paper shopping bags, of human meals. Children with white skin had been given swings and seesaws and sliding ponds. Children with black skin had been left with the old broomsticks that served them as baseball bats. Children with white skin had been given wading pools to splash in in summer. If children with black skin wanted to escape the heat of the slums, they could remove the covers from fire hydrants and wade through their outwash, as they had always waded, in gutters that were sometimes so crammed with broken glass that they glistened in the sun.

Kit wore a smile that stretched across the harbor. “I have asked Whitney to be my wife.” My stomach leaked through my shoes. Whitney started clapping like a six-year-old. “And I said yes!” It’s happening. It’s really, really happening. I don’t think I moved a muscle. My brain shorted. My eyes locked in place. A corner of my mind agreed with Whitney. They really should’ve let me get more settled. “Kiddo?” Kit seemed equally paralyzed. Grin cemented in place, he held Whitney’s hand and watched me like a hawk. His fiancée’s hand. I’ll have to get used to that. I couldn’t speak. The awkward moment stretched. Three people, staring in silence across a tiny dining room. Sensing the tension, Coop padded to my side. I ignored him. Ignored everything. This is what Kit wants. This is what makes him happy. He was here first. “That’s . . . that’s . . .” Don’t blow this. Don’t ruin the moment for your father. “I’m really . . . very . . .” Whitney took a small step forward. Don’t. Stop. I can’t screw this up. “Tory?” Whitney spoke softly and sincerely. “Please know that I love your father very much, and—” Abruptly she cut off, eyes widening in alarm. “Sweetheart, you’re filthy.” Nose crinkling, Whitney reached for my mussed, tangled hair. “There’s dirt on your sleeves, and I can smell—” She’d crafted the perfect escape. Like a release valve forcing open. “Mind your own business!” Batting her hands away. “Ben’s car got stuck in the mud. Is that okay?” Laced with all the sarcasm I could muster. A part of my brain understood what was happening, but those cells weren’t driving. “God, you’re always butting in!” I stormed past them both, pounding up the stairs with Coop on my heels. “I don’t need a replacement mother!

It never failed to amaze her, the sudden sharpness of that pain as it stabbed through the cotton batting of time. A part of her wished fervently it would dull, and another part of her hoped that it never would. The endless cycle of guilt: the need to escape it and the equally desperate need to cling to it.

It’s a throwing stake,” she told me. “A vampire once tried to escape from me. He thought it would be safe, flying off in bat form. The fool. I hit him in the wing with one of these.” She held up the throwing stake, stroking its polished, red oak point. “The metal makes it heavy, so it flies better. The oak makes it lethal. The vampire was easy to trap once I took him down.” Without a flicker of hesitation, she took aim and threw the weapon straight into the heart of the bats’ roost. One of the bats dropped to the floor like dead fruit from a tree. The cave exploded with dark, flapping shapes. My heart skipped a beat as they screeched and squealed. “That’s how you kill a vampire,” Mum whispered triumphantly.

Stanton skimmed over the jagged path of black shadows beneath the palm trees until he was over her head. Abruptly he slid back into himself and landed on his feet in front of her. She gasped. He let an indolent smile creep over his face and breathed in the sweet smell of her fear as his hand shot out and grabbed her before she could turn and run. Soon you'll have nothing to fear. He pushed the words into her mind and added a pledge of love to make her his for eternity. Her eyes flashed back with a promise of her own. The warrior-goddess emerged. At first he thought she was going to battle him. He opened his mind with eager anticipation. He wanted her to fight. Instead, she surprised him. She dropped her cello case. It thudded on the concrete and glass. Then she flung her books at him. He batted the books aside as she darted across the street. Her skirt flapped wildly about her legs and her shoes smacked hard on the pavement. He ran after her, his heart excited by the chase. You can't escape me, he whispered into her mind. That's what you think. He loved her foolish bravery.

You’re one of that kind, are you?” said Fuller disgustedly. “You first kick another chap in the middle, and then offer him a bribe to get off. Well, you’ve made a little mistake this time. Bates” (this to the constable) “I’m detailed to stop here. You’d better whistle up your point-mate at the next corner and tell him to take over your beat till you return. Report to the superintendent that the man you’ve got in charge was arrested for suspicious behaviour attempting to enter the Belfry, and that he attacked the officer in charge in attempting to escape. And you can keep your explanation for my superior officers, sir,” he ended up in his best manner.

During the Second World War, the United States military initiated Project X-Ray, a top secret program in which bats were trained to carry and deliver explosive devices. Ultimately the project was scrapped after hundreds of bats escaped from the test range, incinerated several army buildings, and took up residence beneath a large fuel tank.

placed Narahdarn, the bat, to watch over the honey which is for the bees. Narahdarn will be drawn forth if the honey is taken by you and then you will have to deal with Death.”     “What is death?” asked Ber-rook-boorn.”     “You mean to ask, who is Death,” replied Baiame. “Death has the power to take your life if my laws should be broken, and there is nothing I can do about it. This tree belongs to Death; he is trapped within it which is why it is sacred. Do not allow him to escape. So the tree belongs to him, as the honey belongs to the bees, all of this in the same way that the name Ber-rook-boorn now belongs to you. Do not touch the honey,” said Baiame once more and then disappeared from view.     It was several days later when the woman could stand it no more. The honey from the hive, hanging within the branches of the yarran tree, were dripping upon the ground and seemingly going to waste. It looked so delightful. So she grabbed her digging stick and pushed it into the hive, twirling the stick as she did so. The stick was soon covered in honey and she drew it out. Now placing it into her mouth her face lit up with a great expression of joy and as it did so there was a terrible screeching sound from atop the yarran tree.     Down came Narahdarn who planted himself upon a branch and hung there up-side-down.     “Who are you to take that which is sacred?” asked Narahdarn with a note of sarcasm attached.     “I am the wife of Ber-rook-boorn,” she replied, nervously.

Sitting on my balcony one night, sipping a cold beer and watching the bats circling over the rhododendrons, I let myself feel the weight I had carried with me all my life, that I had run from, humming under the surface. It was a feeling of worthlessness, a deep-seated shame. In that moment I was at the same time a recognized, celebrated thirty-year-old international TV correspondent and a little girl hiding under the stairs from her parents and incapable of loving herself. I knew well how to escape this feeling—head out on a plane, to a place with no cell service, a place where I didn’t really belong—but this time I would not. I would sit there and feel it. And it didn’t kill me. Those months felt like a cease-fire. A fragile peace emerged. Even my plants began to survive.