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Out the Window
You've climbed out of exactly one window in your life, and it was this one, this afternoon, to see if you could. Good practice, as it turns out.
The wind grabs your pajamas like it wants to argue. Violet lightning turns the farmyard strange — every fence post throws two shadows, and neither one points away from the light like it should.
Halfway to the barn you step on something cold. Not wet — the ground is bone dry — just cold, a patch of grass that the moonlight shows as grey. Perfectly, impossibly grey, like a photograph of grass instead of the real thing.
The silvery cry comes again from the barn, weaker now.
You run the rest of the way and slip through the banging door into the dark.