I thought to leave a note for my sister before I left. It came to mind as I reached the doorway. There was a diagonal light that had made me look through a smaller window across the way, by the pantry. I thought briefly of how it would have been in the daytime, seeing her as through it and how she would think to startle me whenever she heard me from inside. I thought of this and only then had wanted to leave a note. It would be from a scrap that was barely the size of my palm. It would be torn from a larger sheet. I would dip my finger in ink and spell the word — “chough” — in smaller letters toward the bottom. But then when I turned from the doorway and saw myself stooped in darkness, I felt myself for some reason debased, and thought instead that I should better hurry.

I took with me a fruit knife, a second pair of boots, some balled twine.

The knife I had lifted from the pantry. It had a wooden hilt that was carved by my father, no markings otherwise but with an uneven polish that was as it was since I was a boy. Just as well as I thought of leaving, I thought firstly of the knife and for its grip.

The boots I bought the year before last, from a rather frantic woman in the street who traded them for three pieces of gum — all I had.

The twine was already in my coat pocket before I realized. My aunt handed it to me to secure a bundle. I think of papers but it would have been too thick, this kind of twine. Otherwise I have no recollection of for what else. Strangely, though, I can only think that it was from her.