She scoured the Earth, wandering and ravenous, looking for doors. And she found them. She found them in abandoned churches and the salt-rimed walls of caves, in graveyards and behind fluttering curtains in foreign markets. She found so many her imagining of the world grew lacy and tattered with holes, like a mouse-chewed map.

I wanted to run away and keep running until I was out of this sad, ugly fairy tale. There's only one way to run away from your own story, and that's to sneak into someone else's. I unwedged the leather-bound book from beneath my mattress and breathed in the ink-and-adventure smell of it. I walked through it into another world.

There's only one way to run away from your own story, and that's to sneak into someone else's. I unwedged the leatherbound book from beneath my mattress and breathed in the ink-and-adventure smell of it. I walked through it into another world.

I felt like a woman reading a mystery novel with every fourth line missing. There's really only one thing a person can do when they're hip-deep in a mystery novel: keep reading.

How fitting, that the most terrifying time in my life should require me to do what I do best: escape into a book.