Sarah gazed out the window of her room to watch the cars drive on the highway. The road was a thin black ribbon miles away from her. The late after­noon sun glinted off the hoods of the cars, like stars in a fixed point on the horizon.

As she watched them, she thought about the last time she was in a car. The memory wouldn’t surface, forcing her to con­sid­er if she had ever been in one. But of course, she had. She might have been only twelve, but she was a human, and just about every human had been in a car. Her grand­par­ents had an old navy-blue station wagon with bald tires and a bent antenna. Sarah had sat in that car count­less times, but always in the garage. Never moving. In some of the books she had, the stories took char­ac­ters on jour­neys in cars, giving her an idea of what the expe­ri­ence might be like. She imag­ined going on errands into town with her grand­par­ents. Feeling the tires run along the road, bumping over pot­holes, rolling the window down and feeling the wind whip against her face, turning into the parking lot for the grocery store or for ice cream.

“Sarah!” Grandma called from the kitchen.

Inside the house, Sarah helped set the table for dinner, folding the napkins and placing them on the three plates. The scent of Grandma’s roasted squash, corn, and pota­toes burned the inside of her nose, smelling like a com­bi­na­tion of sweat and salt. Because of the small farm they lived on, they ate the same meal every night. They had no reason to leave the house and go into town to get any­thing. They had crops, a cow that pro­duced milk, and chick­ens to lay eggs.

Once, on one of Grandpa’s rare errands that took him outside the fence, he brought her back choco­late. She made it last for three whole weeks, taking a small, milky bite each night after dinner until it was gone. She remem­bered how the choco­late melted over her tongue and washed down her throat. As soon as she fin­ished it, she asked Grandpa to bring her back another. Her request was over one year old.

As they ate, Sarah thought about the last time one of her grand­par­ents left the house to run an errand. Grandpa had left to get parts he needed to fix up their mower. Had it been two weeks? A month? Longer?

“I think the mower is finally on its last leg,” Grandpa said at the table. “The parts I got last time weren’t enough to keep it going.” He shov­eled the roasted veg­eta­bles and sour­dough bread into his mouth for fuel, not for enjoyment.

She pushed the food around on her plate, taking small bites and not really tasting any­thing. The mushy squash dis­in­te­grat­ed between her teeth. A bite of pota­toes left a sandy film through­out her mouth she could only get rid of with a swig of water.

“It’s time to get a new one, isn’t it?” Grandma replied.

Sarah took a deep breath as she pushed the squash away from the corn and pota­toes. She asked, “Can I go with you when you get a new mower, Grandpa?”

Her grand­par­ents shared a quick glance, then both looked down at their plates. Sarah’s eyes drifted down to her own after several seconds of silence.

Finally, Grandpa said, “It’s going to be a boring trip. Besides, I would have to go during the day while you’re study­ing with Grandma.”

“I want to go,” she replied. “I can’t remem­ber the last time I went into town.” She paused. “I can’t remem­ber ever going into town.”

Her grand­par­ents shared another quick glance.

“What?” Sarah asked.

Grandma went back to scoop­ing corn onto her fork. “I need your help here tomor­row,” she said. “We need to husk corn, and you need to learn fractions.”

Sarah’s fork clanged onto her plate. Both grand­par­ents’ heads snapped up to see her staring down at her hands in her lap. “But I do those things every day,” she said. “Why can’t I go into town just this once?”

“I need you here,” Grandma repeated.

“But—”

“The town is dan­ger­ous, Sarah.” Grandma’s voice dropped into a growl that silenced Sarah. “That’s final, okay?”

“Okay.” She picked up her fork but couldn’t eat anymore. After a minute she asked to be excused.

In her room she flopped onto her bed and cried into her pillow. “Only babies cry when they don’t get their way,” Grandpa had told her on more than a few occa­sions. Sarah cried anyway, her sobs stifled in the pillow. When the worst had passed, she sat up and looked around her room as she wiped her eyes. She was sur­round­ed with her draw­ings and paint­ings and the few toys she grew up with. In the books she read chil­dren had birth­days, cel­e­brat­ed Christ­mas, trick-or-treated on Hal­loween, but Sarah was taught that all those things were fiction. When she had asked when her birth­day was, her grand­moth­er told her it was some­time in the fall.

But every day on this farm felt like the middle of June in the high desert of Eastern Oregon. The heat was dry and suf­fo­cat­ing. Dust puffed up from each step Sarah took from the house to the barn. The grass around the house her grand­fa­ther worked so hard on main­tain­ing was a cross between pale green and gold. She waited patient­ly for the fall. She waited for the leaves to change to red and orange in the trees. She waited for her birth­day, but each day she awoke the sun rose quickly in the sky and sweat poured from her body if she was outside longer than thirty minutes.

Outside her room she heard her grand­par­ents talking. Keeping her steps light and avoid­ing the creaky floor­boards, she tiptoed to the closed door of her bedroom.

“It won’t be safe for you either,” Grandma hissed. “We don’t need a new mower. Can’t you fix the one we have?”

“I’ve fixed it dozens of times and it’s now break­ing after the first try. It’s old and needs to be replaced. If we don’t get a new one, the weeds will get out of control and get into the crops. We need it.”

“But I’m afraid you won’t come back.”

Sarah pressed the left side of her face to the door. The wood was cold against her cheek.

Silence for a few seconds. Then Grandpa said, “I will come back. I’ll just be a little older when I do.”

“A little older is a lot for us now. I’m afraid you’ll step outside the fence and have a stroke or a heart attack, and I won’t be able to help because if I leave, who will be here for Sarah?”

“That’s why you can’t watch me go and you can’t wait for me to come back. But I will be back. I’m not as old as I look.”

“You’ve always been too optimistic.”

Their voices trailed off as they walked into their bedroom and shut the door. Sarah kept her ear pressed against the door for a little bit longer, until their whis­pers turned into inco­her­ent mumblings.

She had never con­sid­ered her grand­par­ents to be vul­ner­a­ble. She knew they were elderly, but they had been that way for so long. To Sarah it always felt as though they looked old but did not feel or act old. She held on to a memory from long ago of a time when she referred to them as mom and dad. But her most recent mem­o­ries argued she had always called them “Grandma” and “Grandpa” without ever won­der­ing who her parents were.

These mem­o­ries also remind­ed her that every­thing here remained the same. It had always been just her and her grand­par­ents like it had always been the same wooden toys and books in her room. When she thought of what went on outside the prop­er­ty, she didn’t even know what “outside” meant.

The rule was to never take one step outside of the fence. Grandma repeat­ed this rule in that low growl, and it was enough for Sarah to obey. When she asked why, her grand­par­ents told her the world outside the fence was dis­eased. If she stepped outside, she would get sick. If she stepped outside, they wouldn’t be able to protect her. Outside the fence was best left for grown-ups to brave and deal with the con­se­quences. It simply was a bad place, and Sarah was never to see it.

But she wanted nothing more than to take one step outside of the fence. She des­per­ate­ly wanted to go into the town, learn its name and why it was such a bad place. She figured the people must be mean, but Sarah could never know for sure. Not unless she could expe­ri­ence it herself.

In the morning, Grandpa left to get a new mower. Sarah asked if she could at least ride in the car until he got to the fence. Both grand­par­ents denied her request. Grandma had her working on frac­tions in the dining room so she couldn’t see Grandpa leave.

She opened her math book and brought out a sheet of paper and a pencil. She tried focus­ing on what was in front of her, but the numbers on the page made no sense.  As her eyes scanned the pages, her ears lis­tened for the start of the car in the garage. When she finally heard it, she jumped out of her chair and raced to the living room that looked out onto the front yard. The station wagon rolled down the gravel dri­ve­way and past the border of the fence. Grandma, clutch­ing a tissue to her chest with both hands, watched from just inside the fence as the car drove down the hill and out of sight. Grandma turned back to the house, tears rolling down her face in glis­ten­ing lines.

Sarah ran back to the dining room before Grandma came back inside and wrote an equa­tion from the book on the paper. She lis­tened to Grandma’s shuf­fling foot­steps and snif­fling as she entered the house through the kitchen. She was no longer crying when she came into the dining room, but her eyes were red and the skin around them was swollen. Sarah kept her head down, pre­tend­ing to solve the equation.

“You’re not doing it right,” Grandma said.

Sarah allowed herself to look up from the math book. “Did he leave?” she asked.

Grandma took the paper and pencil and wrote out the correct answer and process, then slid the paper back over to Sarah. “That’s how you do it.”

“How long will he be gone?”

“Shouldn’t be gone too long,” she answered. “Hope­ful­ly we’ll be done with the corn before he gets back.”

After her school­work, outside by the barn Sarah and Grandma husked the corn, throw­ing the leaves into the burn pile. As they worked, Sarah glanced at the dri­ve­way. The heat of the after­noon made sweat rain down from the top of her head and roll into her eyes. She wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt every few minutes until Grandma told her to quit. She glanced at the dri­ve­way again, think­ing she heard the station wagon’s old motor driving up the hill.

“Quit looking over there,” Grandma said. “He’ll be back.”

When Sarah turned her atten­tion to Grandma, she was not con­vinced. Grandma was sweat­ing just as much, but she let the drops fall from the bottom of her chin. Stains worked out from under her arms and stuck to her sides. She glanced at the dri­ve­way more than Sarah, every once in a while a fresh tear escap­ing from her eye.

When they were fin­ished with the corn, Grandma released Sarah to enjoy the sunny out­doors for the rest of the after­noon. As long as she stuck inside the prop­er­ty, of course. Sarah walked the perime­ter of the waist-high wooden fence, waiting for Grandpa to return. The small farm sat on little more than ten acres of prop­er­ty. Half of it was taken up by the crops and the other half was for the cow to roam. Sarah walked in the cow’s pasture along the fence, careful not to step on any cow pies.

From the edge of the fence on this side of the prop­er­ty, all Sarah could see was more pasture. Once she stum­bled upon a fox and, several times, deer, but never any humans. Sur­round­ed only by pas­tures and hills and a blue sky, it was like she and her grand­par­ents were the only people who existed in this world. If it wasn’t for the thin strip of highway visible several miles away, Sarah would believe they were alone. Even at twelve, she wasn’t sure if she was truly living if all she could do was look at empty pas­tures and walk along a fence. When she com­pared her life to the stories in the books she read, she felt like her life had less meaning than those of the made-up characters.

Far away, on the other side of the prop­er­ty, she heard the old station wagon’s engine roaring up the driveway.

“Grandpa,” Sarah said aloud and sprint­ed to the house.

When Sarah saw Grandpa in the driver’s seat with the engine off, she stopped running. Grandma was kneel­ing between him and the open door.

A man much older than Grandpa sat in the car. Keeping her steps light, she walked around the driver’s side. Grandma had her hand on his shoul­der, shaking him gently. The man in the driver’s seat was nodding off, but the gentle shake brought him back to consciousness.

“Grandpa?” Sarah said.

Grandma turned to her. “Sarah, can you go get your Grandpa a glass of water?”

Sarah obeyed without a second thought. She hurried into the kitchen, drew water into a tall glass, sank an ice cube in it, and headed back to the garage. She took her time opening the door and walking down the two con­crete steps while she kept her eyes on the old man in the car.

“Please hurry, Sarah,” Grandma said.

Sarah handed over the water and Grandma brought it to Grandpa’s lips. His skin looked like leather—actual leather. Old leather. Cracks and wrin­kles wove their way around his face and neck and of what she could see of his hands and arms. Skin hung under his chin, as if someone had tugged aggres­sive­ly until the flesh pulled away from the muscles. Sarah always admired how blue his eyes were, but now they appeared dim, almost gray. There was a cloudy dot over his left pupil that made Sarah’s legs tingle.

She tugged on Grandma’s arm. “What hap­pened to Grandpa?”

“He just had a long day. Help me get him inside.”

Grandma bore most of his weight as they brought him to the living room. His body flopped onto the reclin­er like they had let go of a dead body. Sarah flinched away from him as the reclin­er leaned back then lurched forward with his weight.

His faded eyes opened and rolled over to Sarah. “I brought some new books back for you. Found them in a thrift store.” His eyes drifted to Grandma. “I also brought some­thing back for you.”

“You shouldn’t have done any­thing extra,” Grandma scolded. “You were just sup­posed to get a new mower.”

“I got it. I got it.” His eyes closed, the left one first and then the right one.

“He doesn’t look okay, Grandma.”

“He’s fine,” she snapped. “He just needs a nap before dinner. Come on and help me get the mower out of the car.”

A dozen roses in a crystal vase sat in the back of the car, a paper bag filled with books and a choco­late candy bar leaning against them. Sarah’s eyes grew twice their size at the latter. Before she could get her hands on the choco­late, Grandma beck­oned her to the back of the car and they hefted the mower out togeth­er, Grandma car­ry­ing most of the load again. After it was wheeled into the corner of the garage, Grandma came back to the car to look at the roses. 

“What a fool,” she mut­tered, a faint smile in the corner of her lips. Her eyes con­tained some­thing Sarah had never seen in them before: sadness.

Later, Sarah helped her get dinner ready in the kitchen by slicing the veg­eta­bles. Keeping her eyes down on her work, she once more asked, “What hap­pened to Grandpa?”

“He’s tired, like I said the first time you asked.”

“He looks older.”

Sarah felt Grandma’s tense shoul­ders and wet eyes on her like she was expe­ri­enc­ing them herself.

“Yes, he’s older,” Grandma respond­ed. “Not young and spry like he once was.”

The knife slipped from Sarah’s right hand and clanged to the floor. “No, Grandma, he looks ten years older than when he left this morning. He looks like the kind of old you’re not sup­posed to notice because it happens over years. He looks ancient.” She caught her breath. “Does it have some­thing to do with the town? Did the people there do this to him? What hap­pened to him?”

“Enough ques­tions,” Grandma growled. “Your Grandpa is sick because he left the prop­er­ty, just as we warned you would happen if you leave. Some­times we must leave to get things we need, like the mower. If he hadn’t taken the time to get you books or choco­late or”— she paused to take a breath—“or roses, he might not be so bad. We are doing every­thing we can to give you a happy life, Sarah. We want you to be safe.”

Sarah picked up the knife and set it next to the sliced vegetables.

“You said you’re doing every­thing you can to give me a happy life.” Tears spilled down her face without warning, hooking under her chin and falling onto her shoes. “But I’m not happy, Grandma.”

“Sarah—”

Grandma held her arms out to embrace her, but Sarah pushed her away and ran out of the kitchen. She sprint­ed through the living room, past Grandpa sleep­ing in the reclin­er, and out the front door. Grandma chased after her, her growl replaced with a plead­ing voice.

“Sarah, where are you going?”

Their running woke up Grandpa with a start. He strug­gled to get out of the reclin­er, but suc­cess­ful­ly got to his feet on the third try. “Crying is for babies,” he mut­tered from the front door.

Sarah stopped at the fence, her breaths short and shallow now.

“Sarah!” Grandma called. She halted half a dozen paces from Sarah. “Please, come away from the fence.”

“No.” She reached out behind her and grabbed the top of the fence. “I know you and Grandpa want to protect me, but if I don’t know what I’m being pro­tect­ed from, how can I feel safe here forever?”

Grandma took one step forward. “We’re asking you to trust us. Every day we’re asking you to trust us. Since you were born—”

“When was I born? How old am I?”

“You’re twelve.”

“But how long have I been twelve?”

“I lost track some time ago. It’s hard to keep track when every day is the same.” She ran her hands through her white hair. “I thought we had more time before we had to explain every­thing to you.”

Sarah bit her lower lip to hold back more tears. “Are you and Grandpa my parents?”

Grandma took another step forward, her hands held in front of her to show she meant no harm. “Yes.”

Sarah was jolted back­ward by the answer, her body bumping the fence and opening it.

“Please, Sarah, don’t!” Spittle flew from Grandma’s mouth. Her eyes were wild and bulging. “I’ll explain every­thing if you just come back inside. I mean it, every­thing. You’re right, you have a right to know what we’re pro­tect­ing you from.”

Sarah turned her back to Grandma and faced “out there.” “I want to see it for myself now.”

Sarah took one step outside the fence.

“SARAH!”

She took a second step. A third step.

She turned to look at Grandma at the edge of the fence, her face a white sheet of terror.

The air smelled sweeter on this side of the fence, and it was cooler, but Sarah chalked that up to imag­i­na­tion. When she looked up, she saw thick gray clouds in the sky. Snow covered the expanse of hills she looked at every day.

Her body trem­bled with a cold­ness she had never expe­ri­enced. She looked down at her hands and saw lines in her palms she hadn’t seen before. Turning them over revealed more lines and a brown spot on the back of her left hand. Her skin felt paper thin and, when she looked at her arms, purple and blue veins raced up and down in thin ribbons that tangled together.

She took another step forward but found it nearly impos­si­ble as the frigid air froze her in place. However, it wasn’t just the cold air that immo­bi­lized her. She heard a creak in her right hip as she brought her foot forward. A bolt of pain shot up her leg, into her hip, and wrapped around her mid­sec­tion. She grabbed her stomach and real­ized she couldn’t stand up straight. She could only hunch forward, her neck pro­trud­ing from between her shoul­ders like a baby bird’s. She felt skin hanging from her neck and under her chin just like Grandpa.

With all the strength she had left in her, she turned around to see tears cut through the terror on Grandma’s face as she stared at Sarah with an open, quiv­er­ing mouth.

“Grandma—” Sarah didn’t rec­og­nize the voice that left her. “What—” The voice was lower and shaky, like she had a mouth full of rocks weigh­ing down her jaw and cov­er­ing her tongue.

Without warning, mem­o­ries flooded her brain. Mem­o­ries of the death of her real grand­par­ents, not the ones she thought were raising her, but people she had never seen or met. She remem­bered the death of her parents, first her dad (Grandpa) and then mom (Grandma) many years later. She remem­bered the death of friends she didn’t have.

Illness coursed through her body. First it gave her blind­ing migraines. Next, she felt a sharp pain in her chest, like an invis­i­ble force stab­bing her with a dozen knives.

She dropped to her knees, her kneecaps shat­ter­ing like glass. She fell forward on her hands, her wrists and fingers crying out in bursts of pain. She crawled back to the fence as more mem­o­ries surfaced.

A baby. A man stand­ing next to her as she held him. And then the man was gone. The baby became a toddler, then a child, then a teenag­er, then an adult. He left Sarah. As she crawled, love, grief, and depres­sion balled up in her failing heart.

A book flashed inside her head. The title read A Life of No Expe­ri­ences. Her name was under­neath the title. Her memoir. Every­thing she had gone through in her life, on this farm, sealed in a book. 

When she reached the fence, her fingers were bleed­ing and the pain in her chest had mutated into a numb, tin­gling sen­sa­tion that spread through­out her body. She col­lapsed halfway through the thresh­old and Grandma dragged her until her entire body was back on the property.

“We were pro­tect­ing you from every­thing,” Grandma said as she hovered above in a haze. She ran her fingers through Sarah’s now white hair, her touch as gentle as pos­si­ble to not cause any more pain. She shook with both anger and sorrow as she held her daugh­ter. “We were pro­tect­ing you from all of the pain and anger and tragedy and aging. We wanted you to be happy forever, Sarah. We wanted to be togeth­er forever.”

“I see and feel every­thing.” Sarah’s eyes rolled upward. “You kept me from living my life. I have a husband. I have a son.”

Out of the pain and rage cours­ing through her body and mind, peace blos­somed in her slowing heart. A type of love for her parents she had never expe­ri­enced before warmed her shiv­er­ing body. 

As her mother looked down at her, Sarah’s vision faded into black. Her old, spas­ming body went still. Gravity pushed her into the Earth, a dead weight on Grandma’s lap. Her hair splayed across Grandma’s legs. The rest of Sarah drifted, taking all her expe­ri­ences with her, moving into a bound­less space where every­thing she brought with her floated away.