Disclaimer: Lost is owned by ABC Television and was created by Jeffrey Lieber, J. J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof, produced by Bad Robot Productions. I don't own it but I love it.

"I do know this. It's the things we run from that hurt us the most." - Norma Johnston

I was exhausted. I had been trekking for miles in the outback, past scraggly bushes, wire fences, jackrabbits, kangaroos, plants and random shrubbery. I was following yet avoiding being near main roads but not so far away that I was close to homes or farms. I wore a ball cap and kerchief over my face when the winds kicked up. The red dust here was worse than sand with its fine grit. Melbourne was over 60 miles behind me and I had run out of money, food, and yesterday I drank the last of my water.

I needed to find food, water and sleep but all I cared about at that point was sleep. I followed a long, winding driveway off of the main road. I knew there must be a house, probably a farm near the end of it because of the remote location and the tell-tale rusty mailbox attached to a post by the road.

The skies were clear and moon was almost full. I saw the cluster of buildings, lit by the moon, including a one-story farmhouse with large front and side porches. It was an older house. I approached quietly, giving the house a wide berth, and quietly went around to the outbuildings. No dogs barked. No sounds could be heard beside my breathing and the night sounds of sleeping or tired animals. One large shed had sheep pens. The out buildings and barn had tin roofs, unlike the house.

I was on my last legs. They ached from hiking today and yesterday with almost no food and little to drink. The sheep were sleeping, huddled in a mass. I heard a few sleepy calls when I made my way past them. They were mostly quiet. I settled in the empty pen next to them, filled with fresh hay. I put down my canvas rucksack to use as a pillow and was asleep as soon as I laid down and curled up, putting my head on my bag, the container of all my worldly possessions.

I could smell the hay in the barn. It was a familiar, comforting smell. I was still half asleep. I was warm and comfortable, despite sleeping in my clothes and coat. The sheep made occasional baa noises and the air smelled like a combination of hay, dirt and grass. The latter was from the sheep. I could tell from the scent they were shaved about a month prior. They smell like lanolin and poop in addition to dirt and grass by the time they were ready to shear. That was before they were dipped.

I knew I needed to get up and out before the owners woke up but kept dozing, like some people do when they hit the snooze button on their alarm. The sun had just risen.

I heard a shotgun being cocked. My eyes flew open, my body rigid. I was laying on my right side and looked up. The barrel was pointed at my neck, held by a tall, aged man in overalls and a straw hat that shaded part of his face. He was heavily wrinkled from the brutal Australian sun and his shaded blue eyes were inscrutable. He looked down at me with an irritated look. I fought the urge to bolt, my heart hammering and adrenaline flooding my limbs. Maybe I could talk my way out of it? I looked non-threatening. I kept the fear out of my face and looked up at him steadily, wondering what his next move would be.

"Good morning." He spoke. He had an Australian accent, like the majority of citizens I crossed paths with. I normally liked the accent, but his tone was anything but friendly. There was nothing good about the morning so far and I prayed it wouldn't get worse.

My mind was fully awake and wary. I responded. "Good morning." I scrambled to my feet, itching to run but held my ground to avoid a big hole being blown through my back. There was no law out here, nobody to find the body if a land owner decided to kill a trespasser.

The farmer's gaze never left my face, his tone never changed. "You were sleeping in my sheep pen." His statement demanded a response.

I was busted and I knew it. "Sorry." I spoke softly. I really was. I hope it came across my face, that he saw the regret. I did it out of necessity. It was mostly to avoid the random creatures I came across. Lizards, spiders, snakes, poisonous and non-poisonous, dingo packs and other random creatures that could kill or injure me when asleep in the open.

The worst creature of all was man. It could be the marshal pursuing me as he had for the past few years. It could be a man wanting some female company, a man wanting to turn me in for a reward or both. People, especially men, were the most dangerous predators of all to me.

The farmer raised an eyebrow. His skin was tan. Now that I was standing, I saw he wasn't as old as he appeared. The wrinkles were deeply etched, but it was sun damage. He stood at least a head taller than me. He must have been assessing me too.

His expression relaxed and he lowered his gun. I mentally sighed in relief. I was hoping he was the kind that didn't like to shoot unarmed young women or worse. It's not that I couldn't get away. I was starving. I needed to refuel and rehydrate if I was going to fight or take off.

"How'd you get here?" He asked, curiosity in his voice. It was a good question. He was way off the beaten path.

I picked up my backpack and felt slightly nervous, as the last of the adrenaline left my system. "I walked." I slung my bag over my shoulder, pushing my ponytail, tied low, out of the way.

"You walked?" He sounded a little incredulous and looked at me skeptically when he asked.

"Yeah." I said confidently. I felt slightly out of breath already from fatigue. I was already out of steam.

"From where?" I decided to tell him the truth, at least most of it. I had to be quick on my feet with answers and literally if needed, weak or not.

I looked at him, meeting his eyes. They were sky blue, obscured some by the hat. His forehead wrinkled more as he tried to figure me out. Good luck with that, I thought. Nobody has managed or wanted to do that for ages. People just made assumptions without talking to or getting to know me. Nobody knew the real me now that I cut ties with Dad with running from the law. "Town."

"Nearest town's 15 kilometers." He pointed out the barn door. I knew. I walked all 9 or so miles, stopping there using the last of my money for sustenance. It wasn't too bad out here until my rations ran out.

I tried to breathe slowly to calm my heart down. It was still beating fast for some reason. Adrenaline? Hunger? "Maybe that's why I was so exhausted." I paced back and forth one step in each direction to get my body moving and stretch. Then I brushed off a little straw from my leather jacket. It was a familiar action, having grown up around farms, and it calmed me down a bit. I rolled a piece between my thumb and first finger unconsciously.

Ray's demeanor was starting to change. He dropped the gruff exterior and seemed to have made some kind of judgement about me. What that was, I didn't know yet except he wasn't angry anymore. I was small but not a threat. I was tired and my stomach was growling in protest. "What's your name?" His voice wasn't exactly friendly, but more placid now.

I met his eyes again. "Annie." I answered quickly. It was the next one in line. I used my aliases in alphabetical order. I was back to the top of my list. They were names of female Saints I had learned in Sunday School, the ones that meant something to me. St. Anne was the patron saint of farmers, equestrians, children, and poverty.

He didn't smile still, but I saw a bit of kindness surface in his face and in his eyes. He looked at me, assessing my size. I was thin and petite. "You hungry, Annie?" I looked at him carefully. He seemed sincere. Truth be told I was starving and was tempted to eat hay if I found no food to take with me on the road. The last thing I wanted to do was pass out in the middle of nowhere. It meant my death. I would end up being found or not, just a pile of bleached bones with a rucksack filled with clothing, an empty wallet, a few pictures, a vintage toy DC-3 plane and false i.d.s.

He led the way, gun loosely held and pointed to the ground. He had a slight limp. He took me back to the farmhouse. It was one-story, older with a wood shingle roof, but seemed to be in good repair. I felt a little leery from habit, but nothing was setting off alarm bells in my head.

It was a lonely life, one I despised, but I tried not to get up close and personal with people or attached on the run. It's just one meal, I told myself. It was as if I had had no ability to stop, even if I wanted to. My stomach was in charge, taking over my brain, so I willingly stepped through the screened back door.

Ray made me eggs, bacon, biscuits and coffee. I don't touch the bacon but I won't pass up well-done eggs. It's hard being a vegetarian on the run and avoid all animal protein. Tofu didn't grow on trees. I try not to think of eggs an animal by-product. I just focus on the taste which is incredible with a little salt. Ray ate already when he woke so it was all for me.

I had already polished off the first panful of scrambled eggs with a fork and knife. I had no shame in the amount I ate. I couldn't help it. I knew I was eating too fast but my stomach was a bottomless pit that morning. I had a high metabolism because my body is lean and muscular with little body fat, a regular calorie furnace. It's been that way since I was a teenager. It didn't help that I was unable to sit still for long and needed to run, climb and do things unless I was deep in thought. I was a straight A student but liked the freedom and movement. I took off after homework was done, even as a child.

Ray came back over with the coffee pot and began to pour more into my almost empty cup. He had been a good host, despite the fact I was trespassing, slept in his barn, and eating all the eggs he had gathered, maybe a week's worth. I heard the chickens but didn't lay eyes on the coop yet. I put down my fork long enough to push my cup over for him to pour.

"So, you want to tell me why you're trespassing on my property?"

I looked up at him and swallowed the mouthful of eggs. "I ran out of money." It was the truth. I was flat broke in a foreign country and wasn't a good feeling. That meant I had to work. That meant a higher risk of being spotted if U.S. Marshal Edward Mars figured out which country I fled to.

Marshal Mars was relentless and I had a feeling he was way beyond his budget and time limit to catch me. It was a long, weird tale starting with what I did or was accused of doing. Important details were missing from the newspaper articles I had read, things that were critical when telling the story. I had a feeling Edward would use his own money if he had to just for the satisfaction of bringing me in. It wasn't just a marshal chasing a fugitive. He was a one-man show now with no team. I could also tell because of his tactics to bait me, things that led to more charges unfortunately, and his words, what he said and how he said it.

The marshal was a braggart, smug and very frustrated. It was odd because sometimes he would be conversational too. I had a habit of calling him on Feast Days for my favorite saints to plead for him to stop chasing me. I wanted him to believe me and told him about extenuating circumstances of what happened. I needed someone to hear and believe me. He would humor me, maybe to drag out the call, but I knew exactly when to hang up at the phone booths to avoid being traced. I was careful and always set a timer. I knew when it was time to go.

I know exactly when hunting me down became personal for him. It was in the beginning, the first time we met after my Mom went to the police about me. What I did wasn't right, I'll admit it, but she didn't waste any time going to the authorities. It was always about that wife-beater, the one who leered at me, made sexual innuendoes, whipped me with a belt, beat her harshly with no reason or provocation, even breaking one of her bones while I watched. It was always that bastard.

I wasted 6 years of my life after graduating high school to protect her. Instead of going to college, I was hanging around Ames working low paying jobs. I knew if I left he would have beaten her to death within the year. Marshal Edward Mars must have led the team that tracked me to the bus station. He nabbed me trying to buy a bus ticket to Tallahassee and said my Mom gave me up. After trying to take me in for arraingment with me handcuffed in his front seat, he ended up laying in the mud during a rainy night while I sped off in his car.

It was only a matter of time until he tracked me to this country, then the canvassing would start and fliers would be posted offering a reward for information leading to capture. The clock was ticking.

Ray topped off my coffee. "You're an American?"

I swallowed another bite, trying not to talk with my mouth full. God, I wasn't usually this rude. I had some table manners but couldn't swallow. I spoke with the food tucked in my cheek like a chipmunk. "Canadian. I graduated from college and figured I'd see the world." I opened my eyes wide to show it may not have been the best idea, but here I am. "Australia was top of my list so I hopped a flight to Melbourne, but I don't know anybody here so I figured I'd walk for a while, you know." I shrugged at that. I spoke quickly, convincingly while cutting my eggs and stacking them on my fork. I wasn't nervous. I was just trying to fill up as fast as I could to get out of there.

I had just turned 27. I knew I could pass for a much younger age, especially in Australia where the sun aged people's unprotected skin. A lot of folks thought I was in high school or fresh out of it. My skin was fair and smooth with a sprinkling of light-colored caramel freckles across my nose and on the sides of it, extending a little to my cheeks. Unlike some women, I don't mind them. I don't usually wear much makeup, if any, except plain Chapstick.

I read in a magazine that proximity to the equator and sun exposure was one of many factors with skin aging. I liked that since I had been in Iowa from age 5 to 24. It's not that I liked Iowa, don't get me wrong. It made me more of a chameleon, being able to switch roles and ages easier as I disguised my identity.

You could have never told me at age 12 this was what I would end up doing during my adult years. It make me want to laugh and sob at the same time. What the hell was I doing? I was so lonely sometimes I wanted to die, but was trained to survive. My Dad was a decorated Sergeant Major in the army. I had little to hold onto anymore. I felt like an animal sometimes with the desperate need to escape, a smart one that the men found interesting and pursued, but I wasn't really living. I was miserable deep down, but hid it, like my secrets and tears.

Despite my current situation in life, I didn't like running and hiding. Running and jogging I loved for exercise. This was different. I was forced to move on quickly after a few hours, a day, maybe I'd stay a few days if I found a secure place to bunker down and regroup. I wanted to avoid being railroaded to Story County where Ames, Iowa was. I had to stay away from the small-town good old boys who were my potential jury of "peers." I had no doubt they would either hang me or send me to jail for life, probably just on rumor without even hearing my side about what happened.

This is what I resorted to do. I wasn't innocent and I hated the feeling of being trapped, almost as much as I hated myself. If it came down to that, burying me in a prison for life, I'd rather be dead. I wasn't suicidal, just determined to keep moving, surviving. Just the thought of being trapped in a small cell made me feel insane.

Ray set the coffee back on the burner and turned around with surprise on his face. He was still thinking about my walk from Melbourne to here. I knew more questions were coming. He had taken off his hat and hung it on a peg by the door. He was partially bald and more wrinkles appeared without the hat on. He looked less intimidating since I could see his whole face and full expression. I'm pretty good at reading people. "Melbourne's 100 kilometers from here." His tone registered the surprise in his face with a hint of disbelief. I don't think he thought I was lying. It was more like he thought I was crazy and wondered how the hell I did it.

I looked up at him and smiled genuinely, eggs tucked in one cheek again. I hated to be rude but couldn't stop eating. "I like walking." That was the truth.

Ray looked as if he was digesting my words slowly. "And you just happened to wonder onto my farm?"

I had taken a pile of eggs and put them between a biscuit and bit down, starting to chew. I paused to answer. "I like farms, too." That was true as well. I gave him a pleasant look. I did enjoy farm work. Our house was on land that used to be farmed by Diane's, my Mom's, family. When her parents passed, she sold off the fields to neighboring farmers, leaving only the uncultivated land and the old homestead. Working farms were all around us when I was growing up. My best and only friend's family had a farm.

After I had to move to Ames, Iowa, my Dad went away because my Mom wanted that creep. He became my step-dad after the divorce. I hated him and wanted my Daddy back. Wayne drank, cursed, beat my Mom, and said horrible things to her. He didn't care if I was there to witness. I tried to be out of house as much as possible. Nobody missed me, even when I was little and came home after dark.

Mom worked one to two shifts at the diner a day and the last thing I wanted to was be home with that drunken, abusive scumbag. He was fast to take his anger out on the nearest target, usually my Mom. I would slip off to my bed and keep my bowie knife my Dad gave me nearby. I wouldn't have stabbed Wayne. It just made me feel safe and was special. My Daddy picked it out just for me because that's what I wanted for our outdoor camping trips. It was a promise from him of future adventures together. If nobody else in the world did, at least he loved me, deployed or not. I don't believe he loves me anymore, not after what happened.

I enjoyed helping Tommy with chores. We mucked stalls, filled them with sawdust, fed the horses with feed and hay, cleaned the tack, brushed down the horses, scraped and cleaned their hooves and checked their horseshoes to make sure they weren't loose. We fed the chickens and did anything else that needed to be done. He was done twice as fast with me working beside him. That meant he had more time to play with me after Mr. Brennan excused him.

Ray walked over slowly, thinking. He sat across from me with his coffee. "Do you know how to work one?"

I continued to plough through the pile of eggs in front of me. When he asked the question, I tried to be casual about my answer. I looked up at him from my plate, shrugged slightly and nodded. "Yeah." I saw those wheels turning in his head.

I had an idea what he was going to say next, that he needed help. The question was with what? I had no experience shearing sheep or dealing with Australian Shepherds, like the two veteran canines who were on the porch. They were panting in the shade and waiting for Ray. Thank goodness they weren't prowling around last night. They must have slept inside.

I also didn't know what other livestock he had besides a few cows, probably for milk and breeding, chickens and maybe horses. Plus he had crops. What was he growing out here by his lonesome? Fruits, nuts, vegetables, or was it staples like oats, barley, and corn or tobacco. I saw a large, fenced in vegetable garden on the side of the house when we were walking in. It needed some attention. It looked like his wife grew food for meals. The place looked fairly self-sufficient without Ray having to go to the grocery store often.

He looked at me, thought for several moments, then spoke slowly. "My wife died 8 months ago Wednesday." I looked at him sympathetically, my eye brows raised. I didn't expect to hear that. I slowed down my chewing. Poor guy. His eyes were sad for a moment before he resumed. "She left me with too many chores and a hell of a mortgage. If you help me with the first one, I'll give you a fair wage and a place to stay." He was serious. I could tell was telling the truth, not just by words, but the disarray of the kitchen, unwashed dishes, Australian dust that covered the floors, dirty windows and more. It hadn't been thoroughly cleaned for a while, at least over 8 months. Plus there was the garden, it needed some TLC.

I considered his offer versus the risk of being caught. It was off the main roads, buried in the middle of nowhere. He was old and lived alone. I didn't see any pictures of children or grandchildren, only of him and his wife, his wife, or old photos that must have been of their parents or grandparents.

I had asked to use the restroom to wash up before breakfast and took a quick look in the living room, hallway and whatever else I could see discreetly. It could mean no adult children would be dropping by. I could outrun Ray if needed but didn't perceive any inappropriate intentions on his part. He didn't look at or talk to me that way, unlike a lot of men. Some were downright vile.

I really needed to lay low for a while. It was a risk to stay any length of time, but this was the perfect way to make some cash for my next flight. I had my false passports hidden under a fake bottom in my rucksack and was aiming to go to Bali next.

I pursed my lips, while I was giving it serious consideration. I nodded and stuck my small hand out to him across the table. For the first time in a long time, I extended a little trust to someone, a person I had just met that day. Maybe it was my full stomach influencing me, but I thought this could work, at least temporarily. "Deal."

Ray pulled up his left arm and shook the kitchen table by plopping it on top. He knocked on it. It was a stiff, fake arm made of wood, something I hadn't seen before. It must be old. "No. I'm a lefty." He looked at me and gave a friendly laugh as if it was a shared joke. I grinned and shook his left hand firmly, sincerely appreciating his offer. It was a godsend just when I needed it.