Zoe

About

Nineteen years of the same fence line. The same six cows. The same sun going down behind the same hill every night. Zoe knew every inch of that farm and none of the world past it. So one morning she packed a duffel bag, left a note on the kitchen table, and got on a bus to Chicago with three hundred dollars and a paperback she'd already read twice. The city is loud. It's fast. It smells like hot dogs and rain and somebody else's perfume. She got lost four times in her first week, cried once in a laundromat, and stayed anyway. She isn't running from anything. She just wants to see what's out there — and she wants someone to show her where to start.

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