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Dear Fitzy,

Today I’ve been gone 91 days and I’m growing antsy. Sarah has a plan, but it needs time. But if things go to plan, I’ll be out of here before my eighteenth birthday in April. Even if I get out one day before, it will be a victory.

The other day, I started preparing myself. I stopped taking the medication. All of it. I didn’t have much luck cheeking it like other people do. That’s because my pills are huge. I think they’re meant for an elephant. But I don’t swallow them all the way.

When I’m done with dispensary, I cough it up. My throat is so raw you have no idea. But a raw throat is better than a broken brain.

Maybe with my head clearer, I’ll be able to help Sarah with our plan. We need some things. Like a hammer to break the lock on the only door we’ll likely be able to get out of unnoticed for more than two or three minutes. After that, we run, which is good, I told her. We’ll need a running start to get over the fence. You told me that. See? You’re a rebel after all.

I think about that night so much—my last taste of freedom, my last moments with you. I wonder if our signage is still under the bleachers. You’ll have to check for me.

I’ll never go back to Thacher. I’ll never go back to Manhasset or Captain’s Cottage even though part of me wishes I could. And Fitzy? I’ll probably never come back to you.

I wonder if you think about me. You might be the only one. To everyone else, I’m probably dead.

If you think about me, maybe I’ll live a little longer.

Rebels Only.

Parker