It was October and I was five years old. I woke up with this idea. It was like an egg I dreamed in my sleep. Perfect and whole and waiting for me when I opened my eyes. I would hide today. I knew a place my parents would never find me. I would go there and I would hide, and when they were having their breakfast, I would pop out and surprise them. There was a huge package of paper towels under the kitchen sink. It was exactly my size and very, very soft. The sky outside was the color of iced tea. Everyone was asleep. I crawled in and shut the door. It smelled like soap and chemicals. I don’t know what happened, but I must of fallen back asleep. When I woke up, I couldn’t hear anyone. I crawled out. No one was there. I went to my parents’ bedroom and no one was there either. This was my old house with an upstairs and a downstairs. No one was anywhere. The doors were locked and dead-bolted. I was stuck inside. Sometimes, as I waited, I thought they had gotten angry and left me forever, and sometimes I thought they had died. I lay down on my back on the polished wooden floor in the front hall and closed my eyes and waited to die myself. I wished out loud I would die. Over and over. I’ve asked my mom about it and she says it never happened, but I remember it clearly. I remember it as clearly as anything that has ever happened to me. And sometimes I feel that way still.