Shiraishi Sakura

presses both palms flat to the glass, over the two worn paw stickers

182 days. I keep the count on the frame, in pencil.

pushes the window up two inches and slides a key onto the sill

Cut in March, off my mother's spare — it opens the bolt from the outside. She leaves at ten, back after six. I'm not asking to be rescued. Don't call anybody. One hour outside and somebody to walk back with. I never used it. I couldn't work out where to go after.