At night we hear wild cats chuffing, circling, pawing at the screen door. There have always been wild cats in the forest but now they are licking the latches of our windows and visible suddenly when we shut the lights. You pack a bag that is largely full of ants and ticks. I remove my clothes and let the centipedes scatter to the walls and sink drains and cereal boxes. The car is wrapped in the same weeds that are pulling at the trees in our front yard. We think about building a boat out of floorboards and paddling our way to freedom, but when we pry loose the boards with a crowbar we find an endless pit of churning storms, firing thunder back up at us. There are fingernail marks on the walls. The sound is immense and unyielding. We are frozen in place. Our skin crawls and shivers, like we are covered in long, thick hair. I grab you by the wrist and leap.