It wasn’t going to work.
Didn’t matter. She was going to make it work. Somehow.
She threw a bit of this and that into the pot and set it. She hated that slow cooker from the day he’d given it to her. Nightmare to clean.
Down at the basement, she dug out the red four-wheeler. Dragged it upstairs. Helter-skelter added in clothing, shoes, and what-not. Grabbed her purse. Almost forgot her passport. Searched for it. Panicked. Had he hidden it?
Finally found it in a shoe box. Found money, too. Keys to who knows.
On the way out, she checked the pot. Least she could do is leave a last meal.