Early Saturday, driving up I-5 on a misty cool Pacific Northwest Morning singing at the top of my lungs to Peter Gabriel, thinking about apartheid, I glanced down at my gas gauge and saw that I had almost a full tank, almost a full tank in a Prius. I was struck with a strong impulse to just keep driving. I tried to push the thought out of my head and kept singing, thinking of Steve Biko, his tragic death at age 31, a promising life cut short because of hate. I wondered if he knew he would die so young if he would have made different choices, gone on more adventures, had more or less lovers, chosen a different path. With tears streaming down my face, I cried for Stephen, I cried for my birth mother, recently deceased at age 60, another life ending far too early. I needed something to cry about, a way to release the storm in my heart. I pulled over at a rest stop to walk it off; searching my purse to find that my passport was still in there, I took mental inventory of the clothes I had in my overnight bag, a dress, 2 pair of underwear, and a hiking outfit, and allowed myself to fantasize about my great escape. I could drive up through Canada and into Alaska. I could just leave it all behind. I could find a job waiting tables or tending bar in a small Alaskan town. I’m good with people, sometimes too good, but that is another story. I could go by a different version of my name. I could make new friends, being careful to just listen to their problems and share none of my own. I could spend my days off hiking and exploring the wild, answering to no one but me. When I grew tired of one place, I could move on to another town, another bar, another version of my name, a new set of acquaintances. I let myself run wild with this in my head for a good ten minutes, then got back into my car, plugged in the directions for my friend’s house in Lacey and put the car in drive.