My parents skipped my graduation and called

I sprint up the stairs and lock my bedroom door before my father can grab me again. My heart hammers wildly against my ribs as I hear him pounding his fists against the wood.

"Open this door, Emma!" he screams.

I ignore him and grab my backpack from my closet. I stuff it with three days of clothes, my laptop, and my hard-earned savings hidden in a hollow book.

I know exactly what kind of facilities he is talking about. They are remote wilderness camps where kids disappear for years without access to a phone. If he locks me away, my scholarship to Stanford will be instantly revoked.

The doorknob rattles violently as my father tries to pick the lock with a screwdriver.

I open my second-story window and push out the screen. The old oak tree outside my window has been my secret exit for years when I needed to study at the library past curfew. I swing my legs over the sill and climb down the sturdy branches in the dark.

My feet hit the damp grass just as I hear my bedroom door splinter open above me.

I sprint down the suburban street, not looking back. My phone buzzes constantly in my pocket with notifications from the viral video.

I finally stop under a streetlight and pull it out to call Mrs. Alvarez, the only adult I can trust. Before I can dial her number, an unknown caller ID flashes on the screen.

I cautiously answer it, breathing heavily.

"Emma, this is Daniel Pierce," the deep voice says. "I have a security team tracking your phone's location right now."