Chapter 2

The car tore down the freeway. I didn't dare blink.

The moment we crossed the city limits, the gray film over Buddy's eyes started to clear. His pupils began to focus.

He stopped being stiff as a board.

Slowly blinked. Let out a soft whimper.

When Mark couldn't get through to me, he posted a video to social media—surveillance footage from our apartment.

In the clip, I looked frantic, haggard, yanking the dog toward the door in a panic.

Background: our trashed living room from the fight.

His caption:

[Five years of marriage can't compete with a dog's tantrum.

My wife wants to sell everything and divorce me because the dog won't go for a walk. Left in the middle of the night.

Can anyone tell me what I'm supposed to do?]

The comments exploded.

People called me "mentally unstable."

Others said I was "hiding an affair and using this as an excuse to move assets."

The top comment, hundreds of likes:

[This lady can't have kids, so she's treating the dog like her son. Brain damage much?]

The replies piled on:

[Right? Obsessed with that dog.]

[Can't get pregnant so she goes psycho.]

I didn't defend myself. Didn't explain.

Just kept my foot on the gas.

By 3 AM, my mother-in-law, Martha, called.

The second I answered, she started screaming.

Clearly, Mark had filled her in.

"Amy! You cursed woman! Can't give me grandchildren, so you worship that animal!"

"I've PUT UP with you long enough! Are you trying to DESTROY my son?"

"He's about to make VP, and you pull this insane stunt?"

I hung up.

Immediately, my mom sent dozens of voice messages, crying:

"Sweetie, go back and apologize to Mark!"

"You two worked ten years to build that life. You're finally stable."

"You're not getting any younger. Why can't you talk things out? Running away over a dog?"

"His mother already thinks you're... just listen to me, baby. Stop this."

My best friend and coworkers flooded my DMs:

[Amy, did something happen to you?

Mark says if you don't come back by morning, he's filing a missing persons report and getting you declared mentally incompetent.]

I looked at Buddy in the backseat.

Then I blocked every single contact.

Despair. Helplessness. It crashed over me.

I knew what Mark was doing—weaponizing social pressure and family guilt to force me home.

But he didn't understand. Buddy didn't block the door for no reason. He was saving us.

I shut off my phone. Eyes locked on the road ahead.

Minutes later, Mark's final ultimatum came through:

[Amy, I've been reflecting since you left.

But I honestly can't understand why you're doing this.

I've frozen your bank accounts. If you don't come back, I'm filing for divorce.]

Two minutes later—bank notification.

Mark had reported both my debit cards as lost.

He was cutting off my lifeline.

He thought if he starved me out, I'd crawl back like a beaten dog.

But he didn't know—I wasn't throwing a fit. I was running for my life.

I stared in the direction of that city. Heart pounding.

The dread kept building, like invisible hands closing around my throat.

I tried messaging my friends in that city:

[Listen to me. Leave the city tonight. As fast as you can.]

The next second, I was kicked from the group chat.

The admin posted:

[Amy, stop spreading panic. Even crazy has limits.]

I laughed bitterly. Turned off my phone. Slammed the accelerator to the floor.

Tears finally spilled over.

We were two hundred miles out now.

Buddy had rolled over and stood up. He nuzzled into my neck.

His reactions were faster. His eyes were bright and alert again.

"Buddy, you're the only one who believes me, aren't you?"

My voice cracked.

Buddy whimpered softly. Eyes clear and sad.

He understood more than any of them.

I'd become the villain. The crazy woman in everyone's eyes.

The one who couldn't have kids so she treated her dog like a child.

But I glanced at the fuel gauge—half a tank left.

Two hundred more miles and I'd hit the mountains. I'd be free of this city.

And Buddy kept his eyes on the window. That direction—the way to survive.