It's a little girl in Kansas.

It's been a lot of time in my imagination.

I didn't have a job.

I was eight.

So I made up stories.

Basement monsters, bedroom music videos.

You'll kind of do this, right?

Every time you go outside to play, you're an orphan.

The modern world melts away.

And you're going to have to figure out how to make it on your own in nature.

Back then, I was reading Laura Ingalls' Wilder, imagining what it would be like to eat

dark maple syrup poured on trays of fresh snow.

I was reading the box-car kids, inspired by how they'd fill towels with fresh blueberries,

meet them with glasses of milk for dinner.

I learned in school about the Native American tribes of Kansas who'd make tea from wild

sumac trays.

I loved the idea of finding my food outside, but we lived in a suburban neighborhood where

most of the homes were still being built.

The trees and bushes felt limp-y and decorative.

You climbed under them.

You can still find their tags.

When we gand I was outside alone, exploring a nearby construction site.

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