Minerva let Chekhov’s gun fall to the floor. Her creator unraveled to text, which itself fell to dust.

She took nothing, did not glance at the moose head above her desk as she left. Hundreds of staring doll eyes met her gaze on the other side of the door, but Minerva ignored them. More taxidermy watched her flight down the steps.

“Are you–”

“Story’s Over.” Minerva replied, cutting off the front desk volunteer. She didn’t slow down, swept through the gallery and pushed open both sets of doors, batting away a buzzing fly that flew at her face.

Her car chirped as she unlocked the doors. She didn’t know where she was going, only that it was away. No more museums. No more mishaps.

Minerva narrowly missed pulling out in front of the bus painted to look like a cow. That was not how this ended. Her creator would have ended it there. Thought only of how it was an amusing and embarrassing way to die. This Minerva didn’t want to die.

She pulled out on to the highway and headed east. No driving into the sunset. No heading off of a cliff. Minerva Zimmerman’s story wasn’t over.