Free Hidden by Tara Taylor Quinn

breeze blowing. The sun always shone in her meadow, no matter what time of day she went there. It kept her warm, but wasn’t hot. A brook trickled nearby. Birds sang there sometimes. Other times heavenly music played. It had to be heavenly because there were no electronics in her meadow—not even beneath the white canopy that had netted sides to keep out any bugs and a down floor upon which she could lie.
    Tonight the meadow was elusive. She could get there, but kept popping back out, to an inexpensive mattress in a modest home in San Diego, lying next to a man who, in her meadow, would’ve been a fairy tale prince. But who, in real life, presented as much danger as he did safety. The biggest danger of all was making her want things she couldn’t have. Things that could endanger her life. Or Taylor’s. She couldn’t afford to become too soft. Or trusting. She couldn’t afford to feel secure.
    That was when runaways got caught.
    Still, she did want things. She wanted him.
    He was still lying half-propped against the headboard and she knew he was awake.
    Sliding one hand from beneath the covers, Tricia entwined her fingers with his. Many nights she’d fallen asleep with their hands interlocked.
    â€œI want to stay.”
    He didn’t react until, several seconds later, she felt the pressure of a light squeeze against her fingers. He slid down slowly, his body touching hers all the way down.
    â€œI want you to stay,” he replied, just before his mouth covered hers.
    And, really, that was it for them. Another bout of incredible lovemaking. Another moment when, injured as they were, they could each connect with another human being. Another moment of forgetting.
    A brief moment of perfection in a life that wasn’t perfect at all.

6
    San Francisco Gazette
Sunday, April 10, 2005
    Tricia quickly checked the date above the headline as she stared at the newspaper box on the corner of Redwood and 30th Streets, a short mile down the road from Scott’s house in South Park. Seeing that today’s issue had replaced yesterday’s, she slid her quarters into the slot, pulled open the front and grabbed the double-thick Sunday edition. Scott was at work, Taylor asleep in his stroller.
    The sweet scent of roses and carnations coming from the flower stand nearby reminded her of home—of fresh-cut flowers on the table. Color everywhere. Sunshine and blue skies.
    Paper resting on the stroller’s canopy, Tricia pushed her small son toward Fern Street and the crossover to North Park. With the paper growing heavier with every step she took, Tricia knew she had to calm herself. Her hands were shaking, her knees weak, threatening to give out on her.
    Balboa Park, San Diego’s pride and joy, had acresand acres of parkland, flower gardens, museums and even the zoo. It would be a good place to go. Its elegance—and sheer size—its buildings and businesses would provide her with the company she needed to alleviate her panic while still affording the privacy that had become a necessity. And when Taylor woke up, they could play on the swings. He loved that.
    The thought of her son’s laughter as she held him on her lap and pushed them both as high in the air as she dared chased away some of the fear that seemed such a natural part of her these days.
    Past pink hibiscus, pine trees, down streets with two-foot-high beige walls surrounding grassy front yards, Tricia slowly pushed the stroller, concentrating on the rhythm of the wheels crossing cracks in the sidewalk, on the soft April air, on the mustards and browns of Southern California homes and plants.
    Whatever was in that paper would still be there in half an hour, when she was in a better state to comprehend it. Yesterday’s scare with the man in dress pants watching her on the beach had taken its toll. Or maybe it had been her immediate reaction—the way she’d walked off without a word, leaving her son playing