Braeden

The dormitory is silent except for George’s breathing. The place stinks of sweat, damp sheets, and gym socks shoved beneath beds, a smell that usually keeps me awake but barely registers tonight. I roll onto my side, and the mattress creaks beneath me.

George shifts across the room, and I freeze. His face twists in the thin moonlight, and he mutters something I can’t understand while one arm disappears beneath his pillow like he’s reaching for something. My pulse beats hard against my throat as I wait for his eyes to open, but instead he groans and rolls onto his stomach. His arm slides over the edge of the mattress, his fingers grazing the floor, and after a few seconds his breathing evens out again.

I count five breaths, then six, then seven.

He’s asleep.

I push the blanket aside and put my bare feet on the cold tile. Moonlight leaks through the high window, stretching across the floor and stopping a few feet from the door Conrad left cracked after lights-out. Maybe he forgot to close it. More likely, he assumes nobody here is stupid enough to try what I’m about to do.

If he catches me, I go straight to Porter’s office. There won’t be an explanation or a chance to talk my way out of it. They’ll restrain me before I even finish telling them I only wanted to go home.

I reach beneath the bed and find the canvas strap of my pack. The bottom scrapes softly against the floor, and George moves again. I stop with one hand beneath the bed and the other braced against the tile.

“Milkin’ cows,” he mumbles. “No fun.”

Despite everything, I almost smile. George talks about the farm when he sleeps—his mother, his sisters, the cows he claims to hate even though he can describe every single one of them by name and tell you which one kicks, which one likes apples, and which one apparently has a personal grudge against his father.

His fingers twitch against the floor. I wait until his breathing deepens again, then ease the pack the rest of the way out and slide the strap over my shoulder.

When I look at him one last time, he’s sprawled across the mattress with his mouth open and his cheek smashed into the pillow. In sleep, he looks younger than sixteen, and for half a second I consider waking him. I could tell him I found a way out. I could tell him to come with me.

Then I picture George whispering a hundred questions while we move through Fairview Hall. I picture him panicking at the fence or deciding Conrad was right about the woods and the roads beyond them and trying to talk me out of it. Two people make twice as much noise, and if this goes wrong, at least only one of us gets destroyed for it.

I turn away before the guilt settles in and pull the door open. It moves without a sound. I slip into the corridor and ease it closed behind me until only the same narrow sliver remains.

The air outside the dorm is colder and carries the sting of disinfectant. Fairview Hall stretches in both directions, concrete walls washed gray beneath the emergency lights, and there’s no sign of Conrad or the night monitor.

The stairs are ahead. I keep my weight on the fronts of my feet as I cross the corridor, following the route I’ve already practiced in my head a hundred times. Seven steps to the corner. Four to the stairs. Thirteen down to the lower hall.

At the bottom, I stop and listen.

Nothing.

Smithton calls itself an academy. The twelve-foot fences, armed patrols, and locked dormitories say otherwise. My dad said this place would help me. He died when I was fourteen. Before that, I told him it wasn’t helping. I told him I wanted to come home for good. He didn’t listen then. Now he can’t.

The main doors stand at the end of the hall, with Conrad’s empty desk beside them. I crouch behind it and pull the flashlight from my pack, covering most of the lens with my palm before clicking it on so only enough light escapes to illuminate the bottom drawer.

I’ve spent weeks figuring out how to get into it, never doing too much at once because that’s how you get caught here. A little work during woodshop. A little practice whenever I could get near an old lock without anybody asking questions. Tonight, all of that has to be enough.

My fingers shake as I work at the drawer. For a second, nothing happens, and then the lock gives with a small snap.

I hold completely still.

No opening doors. No footsteps.

I pull the drawer out.

A ring of keys rests on top of a stack of disciplinary reports. Beside it are a pack of beef jerky, two boxes of gum, and a half-empty bottle of aspirin. I take all of it. Conrad has been taking things from me for seven months, and tonight, I take something back.

I close the drawer and move to the security panel beside the main doors. A red light blinks above the keypad, but I already know the code. Conrad always tries to block the panel with his shoulder when he enters it, except the glass trophy case across the hall catches the reflection. He never noticed me watching.

The beeps sound impossibly loud in the empty building. The red light blinks twice before turning green.

I sort through Conrad’s keys. The first doesn’t fit. Neither does the second. My hand starts shaking harder, and I glance behind me, but the corridor is still empty.

The third key slides into the lock.

I turn it.

The door releases with a deep mechanical clunk that seems loud enough to wake the entire fucking campus. I pull it open only far enough to squeeze through and ease it shut behind me.

Cold air hits my face. For one second, I just stand there breathing it in.

I’m outside.

Not free yet, but outside.

The courtyard stretches between Fairview Hall and the perimeter fence. Security lights sweep across the gravel paths in slow arcs. Conrad calls them deterrents. Porter calls them safeguards. I’ve spent weeks learning when they move and where they don’t reach.

When the nearest beam swings left, I run right, staying close to the wall until I reach the concrete divider beside the maintenance building. Gravel shifts beneath my boots, and I duck behind the barrier just as the light swings back. Its edge slides across the path inches from my shoes before moving on.

I wait until it’s gone, then run again.

The route is already in my head: water tank, retaining wall, maintenance shed. Stop. Wait. Move. I’ve walked these grounds during recreation pretending to stare at the dirt while actually memorizing where people look and where they don’t.

Then the fence finally comes into view.

Twelve feet of chain-link topped with coils of razor wire.

I drop beside the section behind the maintenance shed and find the opening exactly where I left it. It took more than a month to make, tiny changes each time, never enough at once to be noticed from a distance.

I lift the loosened section and shove my pack through first. It lands in the mud on the other side with a soft thump, then I lie flat and start pulling myself through.

My shoulders barely fit. Broken ends of chain-link scrape across my jacket while gravel grinds into my elbows, but I keep dragging myself forward until my chest finally clears the fence.

Something catches near my shoulder.

I pull, but nothing happens.

My jacket is stuck.

“Fuck.”

I twist and reach back, trying to find whatever snagged me, but I can’t get my arm around far enough. I yank harder, making the fence shift above me.

Something snaps beneath my chest.

Not fabric.

Metal.

I look down and see a thin black contact wire pulled loose from the base of the fence.

For half a second, nothing happens.

Then the entire yard turns white.

Floodlights explode across the courtyard, and the alarm tears through the night.

“Fuck!”

I wrench at my jacket. The wire bites into my shoulder, but the seam finally rips and throws me forward into the mud. Doors slam open behind me. Men shout. Dogs start barking.

I grab my pack and stagger to my feet.

“STOP!”

I run.

A sharp crack sounds behind me, followed by something whistling past my head. Then another shot goes off, and the rubber round slams into the back of my thigh.

Pain explodes through my leg.

I hit the ground hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs, and for a second everything tilts sideways.

“ON YOUR STOMACH!”

Boots pound behind me.

“DO IT NOW!”

My leg is screaming, but I push myself up anyway. It works. That’s all I care about.

I grab the pack and run.

The first few steps are almost impossible. Pain shoots from my thigh into my hip every time my foot hits the ground, but the trees are right there. Another round strikes the fence beside me, and then the woods swallow me.

Branches whip across my face while mud grabs at my boots. I keep one arm in front of my eyes and force the bad leg to keep moving. The guards are behind me, and so are the dogs. I hear barking, chains, and men yelling over one another as they crash into the trees after me.

I don’t take the trail. The trail is where they expect me to go.

Instead, I cut toward the drainage channel I know runs along the western side of the property. Two days of rain have swollen it into a rushing strip of black water, and when I splash into it, cold shoots through my boots.

I turn and follow the current instead of crossing.

Twenty steps.

Thirty.

My leg throbs with every movement, but I keep going until I reach the opposite bank. I climb out, crawl beneath a fallen tree, and force myself through brambles that tear at my face and grab at my ripped jacket.

The culvert is hidden behind them.

I saw it once during a work detail. Half the opening has collapsed beneath dirt and roots, but there’s enough room for one person if he lies flat.

I shove my pack inside and crawl in after it. Wet concrete presses against my chest. The space is barely wider than my shoulders, and the air smells like rust, mud, and standing water. I reach back and drag branches across the entrance before covering my mouth with both hands.

The dogs are getting louder.

Flashlight beams slice through the trees.

“Spread out!”

Boots strike the bank above me. A dog barks once, sharp and close, and its handler swears as the leash snaps tight.

The animal is pulling toward the culvert.

I stop breathing.

Leaves move near the entrance, and then a wet black nose appears between the branches.

The dog sniffs hard.

Whines.

My heart stops.

It knows.

It fucking knows I’m here.

“Trail goes east!” somebody calls farther down the drainage channel.

The handler pulls the leash, but the dog resists, claws scraping through the mud.

“Come on,” the man mutters. “We’ve got him moving east.”

The dog whines again before the handler finally drags it away.

I stay pressed against the concrete, afraid even to swallow.

More men pass above me. A flashlight beam slices through the branches at the entrance, brightening the wet concrete inches from my face before it moves on.

I close my eyes.

“Porter’s gonna lose his mind if we don’t find him,” someone says.

“You think I don’t know that?”

A radio chirps nearby.

“This is Adams.”

I know the voice immediately.

Adams runs secondary discipline—the cement quad, endless sprints, court lines boys run until somebody vomits or drops and gets screamed at to stand back up.

The radio crackles.

“Did you locate the runaway?”

“Negative,” Adams says. “He cut through the woods.”

“Call the sheriff. Set a perimeter along the interstate and send a unit to the bus station. Bring the second dog team before dawn.”

My stomach tightens. The water broke my trail for now, but it won’t hide me forever.

“Copy.”

The radio goes quiet, and Adams moves closer until his boots stop somewhere near the culvert.

“You won’t last out here, Cadet.”

I press my face into my sleeve.

“That round hit you hard in the leg. You might be running now, but give it an hour.”

My thigh pulses like it heard him.

Adams takes another step.

“Come out, and I’ll tell Porter you surrendered.”

His voice changes.

The anger disappears, and suddenly he sounds calm. Patient. Almost concerned.

My stomach turns.

I know that voice.

Brian used it too.

I know what happens if I crawl out. They’ll restrain me, strip me, photograph every cut and bruise, and write that I injured myself resisting staff. Then Porter will decide how long I disappear into secondary.

“Five seconds,” Adams says.

I dig my fingers into the wet concrete.

“One.”

A dog barks somewhere behind him.

“Two.”

Pain throbs through my leg, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.

“Three.”

A flashlight passes over the branches.

“Four.”

I close my eyes.

“Five.”

The woods go still.

“All right,” Adams says, and the kindness disappears from his voice. “When we bring you back, I’m putting you in secondary myself.”

His boots stay outside for several more seconds before he finally walks away. The flashlight beams retreat through the trees, and the dogs move farther down the drainage channel, barking at the false trail I left in the water.

I don’t move when the alarm finally stops or when the voices fade. I count to one hundred, then start over.

At some point, my hands slip away from my mouth, and a breath tears out of me, followed by another. I try to fill my lungs, but my chest keeps locking halfway through, and my whole body shakes against the culvert floor.

I made it out.

That should feel good.

It doesn’t.

Something inside me just gives way.

A sob comes up too fast for me to swallow. I press my sleeve against my mouth, but another follows, then another. Every jolt sends pain through my leg, and I curl onto my side as much as the narrow pipe allows.

Mud covers my hands. Blood runs from the tear at my shoulder and down my arm. My face burns from the branches, and my teeth won’t stop chattering, but I cry anyway because I’m hurt, because they almost caught me, and because they’re still looking.

If that handler had trusted his dog instead of the guard farther down the channel, Adams would be dragging me out of this pipe right now.

I press my forehead against the wet concrete.

I can’t go back.

I can’t.

Adams’s voice stays in my head.

Come out, and I’ll tell Porter you surrendered.

Soft. Patient. Almost concerned.

And underneath it, another voice surfaces.

Brian’s.

“Hey, Cadet.”

The culvert disappears, and suddenly I’m thirteen again, sitting on the edge of the narrow mattress in the little room behind Brian’s office. The air smells like sweat and citrus cleaner, and my feet don’t touch the floor.

Brian crouches in front of me, his knees cracking as he lowers himself. He smiles like we’re sharing a secret before putting his hand against my cheek.

His palm is warm, and his thumb moves slowly across my skin.

At thirteen, I thought that meant I was safe.

Now I know better.

It meant he could touch me whenever he wanted.

“Do you know the key to earning a black belt?” he asks.

I stare at the knot in his tie because I know he won’t let me leave until I answer.

“Discipline.”

“That’s one.”

“Patience.”

“And?”

I swallow. “Respect.”

His smile widens.

“That’s right. Discipline, patience, and respect.”

His hand closes more firmly around the side of my face.

“I’d like to think these sessions of ours help teach you those things.”

I don’t move as he leans closer.

“You know how much I care about you, don’t you?”

My stomach turns, and the little room seems to shrink around me.

“How much I love you?”

I jerk my head up and slam the back of my skull into concrete.

Pain flashes behind my eyes, and the room vanishes.

“No.”

My voice sounds tiny inside the culvert.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“No.”

I’m not thirteen. I’m seventeen, and I’m in the woods. My hands are covered in mud. My jacket is torn. My leg is injured because they shot me and I kept running anyway.

Brian isn’t touching me.

He isn’t here.

I drag air through my nose and focus on what is actually around me. Wet dirt. Rust. Standing water. Not citrus cleaner. Water drips somewhere deeper inside the pipe, a branch scratches lightly across the entrance, and wind moves through the leaves outside.

Brian isn’t here.

I hold onto those things until the room behind his office finally disappears.

My body is still shaking, but the panic starts loosening slowly. I wipe my face with my sleeve and force myself to think about what comes next.

I can’t stay inside this culvert until dawn. Adams was right about that much. A second dog team will search both sides of the channel, the sheriff will be watching the main roads, and the bus station is probably already covered. Anybody wandering around in a torn Smithton uniform is going to get noticed.

I need distance, different clothes, and a phone.

First, I need to get out of this pipe.

I push my pack ahead of me and crawl backward until my boots reach open ground. The brambles catch the torn edge of my jacket again, but I yank myself free and crawl into the cold night air.

When I stand too quickly, the woods tilt around me. I grab the fallen tree before my knees buckle, and my injured leg nearly folds beneath me. I stay bent over for a few seconds, breathing through my teeth until the dizziness passes, then force myself upright.

The woods are quiet now. Somewhere in the distance, one dog barks, and another answers farther east.

They’re still following the wrong trail.

Good.

I climb through the brambles and move away from the drainage channel. Every step hurts, but I take them anyway.

The nearest tree is an enormous oak with a trunk wide enough to hide me from anyone coming from the direction of Smithton. When I reach it, I press my palm against the rough bark and lean there until my breathing steadies.

The tree is solid beneath my hand.

It’s real.

I made it outside the fence. I got away from the dogs. For right now, nobody knows where I am.

But I don’t know how far the nearest town is. I don’t know whether buses run this late or whether Conrad has figured out what I took from his drawer. I don’t know how long my leg will keep working before the pain gets bad enough to stop me.

I tighten my grip on the strap of my pack.

Getting over the fence was the easy part.

Now I have to figure out what the hell comes next.

I walk for the rest of the night.

The drainage channel stays on my right, guiding me away from Smithton and deeper into the woods. I studied the map until I could picture every line with my eyes closed. The interstate runs east of the academy, and the nearest town is north, which means both directions will be watched. South is mostly farms and hunting land. Fewer roads. Fewer people.

That is where I go.

I keep the flashlight in my pack. Even with the lens covered, it would be visible through the trees, so I use the moon whenever the clouds allow it and feel my way forward when they do not. Branches catch my torn jacket and scrape across my face. Brambles tug at my pants, sometimes hard enough to throw me off balance, but I pull free and continue downhill.

The place where the rubber round struck me has swollen into a hard knot across the back of my thigh. Every step pulls at the bruised muscle, and every few minutes pain shoots high enough into my hip that my right leg threatens to fold. I brace against a tree until it passes, then start walking again.

Adams said the pain would get worse.

I hate that he was right.

My pack weighs more with every mile. The straps press against my injured shoulder, rubbing over the cut left by the fence. Blood has dried beneath my sleeve, stiffening the fabric against my skin, but I do not take the jacket off to check it. I have water and gauze in the pack. I know I should stop long enough to clean the wound, but I am afraid that if I sit down, my body will refuse to stand again.

I keep promising myself I will rest after the next rise.

Then I reach it and see another stretch of dark woods ahead, so I keep going.

The floodlights disappear behind me sometime before midnight. After that, Smithton exists only as a glow above the trees and the occasional distant bark of a dog. Eventually, even those sounds fade.

The silence should make me feel safer.

It does not.

Every branch cracking beneath the wind sounds like a boot landing behind me. Every time an animal moves through the brush, I expect a flashlight to cut across my back. I stop often to listen, holding my breath until I am certain nothing is following me.

Then I move again.

I try not to think about Brian. Thinking about him brings back his voice, his hands, and that room behind his office. It makes the woods disappear beneath me and puts me somewhere I cannot afford to be.

Instead, I count.

One hundred steps, then I check the channel. Another hundred, then I check the slope. At five hundred, I allow myself one sip of water without taking off the pack. I pull the bottle from the side pocket, drink just enough to wet my mouth, and force myself to put it away. My stomach cramps with hunger, but the jerky stays buried beneath the supplies. Reaching it would mean stopping.

I am not ready to stop.

By the time the sky begins to lighten, my legs shake with every step. My wet boots have rubbed the backs of my heels raw, and cold water squelches inside them whenever I put my weight down. The temperature seems to drop just before dawn, settling into my damp clothes and making my teeth chatter.

I keep the drainage channel beside me until the ground begins to flatten. According to the map, it should pass beneath a county road somewhere south of Smithton. I cannot cross near the culvert because the sheriff will expect me to use it, but the road will give me a better idea of where I am.

The first sound of traffic reaches me through the trees.

I stop.

A vehicle passes somewhere ahead, tires hissing over wet pavement. Another follows a few minutes later.

The road is close.

I leave the channel and climb the slope carefully, placing each boot where the ground is firm. When the trees begin to thin, I lower myself into a crouch and move between them until I can see fog drifting over the asphalt.

Red and blue light flashes through it.

My body locks.

I grab the nearest tree before my knees can buckle and press myself against the trunk. The bark digs into the cuts across my palms, but I barely feel it.

A sheriff’s cruiser sits sideways across one lane. Orange flares burn on the wet pavement behind it, their smoke mixing with the morning mist. A second vehicle is parked farther down the shoulder with its headlights on.

This is not a patrol.

It is a roadblock.

One deputy stands near the center line, stopping the few cars that approach. He speaks to each driver, shines a light briefly through the windows, and then waves them through. Another deputy leans against the first cruiser with a thermos in one hand and a radio clipped to his shoulder.

For one second, I consider walking out.

The thought comes before I can stop it.

I could keep my hands where they can see them. I could tell them I am seventeen. I could show them the bruises, the cut across my shoulder, and the swollen mark where Adams shot me in the leg. I could tell them about Brian, secondary discipline, and the rooms without cameras.

They are police.

They are supposed to help.

I shift away from the tree, almost ready to step through the brush.

The radio on the deputy’s shoulder crackles.

“Unit Twelve, be advised Smithton reports the subject may be combative. Seventeen-year-old white male, approximately six feet, academy uniform beneath a dark jacket. Staff requests immediate return upon apprehension.”

The deputy lifts the radio. “Copy. Any indication he’s armed?”

“Smithton says he may have stolen a knife from the facility.”

My hand moves instinctively toward the pack.

The knife is there because I spent two months hiding supplies for this escape. It is a small utility knife from the groundskeeping shed, wrapped in a pair of socks so it would not cut through the canvas. I have never threatened anyone with it.

That will not matter.

The first deputy approaches a pickup truck and speaks to the driver through the open window. I cannot hear what he says, but the driver turns and looks directly toward the woods.

I retreat behind the tree.

Smithton has already told them who I am. By the time I explain anything, they will have me in handcuffs. Brian or Porter will arrive with files describing every time I fought back, refused an order, or broke something during a restraint. They will smile, thank the deputies, and promise to handle the matter from there.

Then I will be in their vehicle.

Back behind their fence.

No.

I watch the road long enough to understand the pattern. The deputies are stopping traffic in both directions, and the second cruiser blocks the shoulder where the drainage channel passes beneath the pavement. I cannot cross here without being seen.

Hitching a ride is impossible too. Smithton has given them my clothes, my age, and probably my photograph. Any driver who sees me will call the number being repeated over the radio.

I back away from the road one careful step at a time. When the flashing lights disappear behind the trees, I turn south again, keeping the road somewhere to my left.

The map is difficult to unfold with numb fingers. I crouch behind a fallen log and spread it across my knees, holding the corners against the wind. The county road curves south for several miles before passing a patchwork of farms. If I stay inside the tree line and follow it from a distance, I should eventually find a barn, shed, or empty hunting cabin.

I need somewhere hidden enough to rest.

After that, I need different clothes and a phone.

I fold the map and return it to the pack before standing. My injured leg seizes halfway up, forcing me to grip the fallen log until the spasm passes. For several seconds, I can do nothing but breathe through my teeth and wait for my thigh to stop trembling.

When it finally does, I move.

The sun rises behind a layer of gray cloud, offering light without warmth. I keep the road within hearing distance but stay far enough into the woods that I cannot see the passing cars. The terrain becomes rougher, cluttered with fallen branches and thickets that force me to change direction.

I lose track of my steps.

My right leg buckles twice. The first time, I catch myself against a tree. The second time, I land on one knee in the mud and remain there longer than I should.

The pack hangs crooked from one shoulder. My breath fogs in front of me, and the ground seems to shift whenever I raise my head.

I need to drink.

This time, I do not promise myself another hundred steps.

I crawl behind a thick patch of brush and lower the pack onto the ground. Relief spreads across my shoulders so suddenly that it almost hurts.

My fingers barely work as I open the front pocket. I find the water and take several slow swallows, forcing myself to stop before I empty the bottle. Then I dig out the aspirin Conrad kept in his desk and swallow two tablets.

They will not fix anything, but they might dull the pain enough for me to keep moving.

The jerky is next. I tear off a small piece and chew slowly while listening to the road. A truck passes somewhere beyond the trees, followed by silence.

Everything I spent two months collecting is packed around me: two bottles of water, purification tablets, gauze, Band-Aids, the utility knife, a lighter, cash taken from Porter’s office during cleaning duty, a crumpled county map, spare clothes, and one dry pair of socks. Most of it was hidden behind a loose panel beneath my bed until tonight.

It looked like more when I was collecting it one item at a time.

Out here, it feels painfully small.

I wrap the remaining jerky and return it to the pack. The cut on my shoulder needs attention, but removing my jacket in this cold would leave me shaking too badly to clean it. I settle for pressing gauze beneath the torn fabric and tightening the strap of the pack to hold it in place.

When I stand, my legs protest, but they hold.

I make it another mile before I see the hunting blind.

It is half-hidden behind a curtain of vines beneath a broad oak. The structure sits several feet above the ground on weathered wooden supports, its gray boards dark with age and moss. One side leans slightly, and the narrow window openings are covered with scraps of faded burlap.

From the road, it would be almost impossible to see.

I leave the path I have been following and approach slowly.

There are boot prints beneath the ladder.

Rain has softened their edges, but they are not old enough to have filled with leaves. A crushed beer can lies near one of the supports, its metal still bright beneath the mud.

Someone uses this place.

The discovery should send me away, but my body has reached its limit. My vision blurs whenever I turn my head too quickly, and the trembling in my legs has become constant. Whoever owns the blind may return later, but the deputies and Smithton staff are searching now.

Later is a danger I can accept.

I circle the structure first, checking for anyone nearby. There is no truck, no equipment, and no sound except wind moving through the bare branches. A narrow wooden ladder leads to an opening in the floor.

I climb it one rung at a time.

The ladder shifts beneath my weight, and the movement sends a sharp pull through the back of my injured thigh. I stop twice, pressing my forehead against the wood until I can continue.

Inside, the blind smells of damp wood, soil, and old cigarettes. The roof leaks in one corner, but the opposite side is dry. A narrow bench runs beneath the windows, and a wooden panel can be pulled across the opening in the floor.

I drag my pack inside and close the panel.

For the first time since I left the culvert, I am completely hidden.

I remain on my hands and knees for several seconds, listening for an engine or voices outside. Nothing follows me.

The blind creaks when I move toward the back wall. I lower myself carefully instead of collapsing, but even that sends a deep spasm through my bruised thigh. My breath catches, and I brace both hands against the floor until the pain settles.

When I can move again, I take off the pack and lay out the supplies.

I drink more water, then unwrap another piece of jerky. Hunger urges me to swallow it in two bites, but I make myself chew slowly. There is no way to know when I will find more food.

The aspirin bottle sits beside my knee. I consider taking another tablet, then put it away. Two is what the label says, and I need them to last.

My wet boots are harder to remove than they should be. Once they are off, I peel away the soaked socks and inspect my feet. The skin across both heels is rubbed open, but there is no deep cut. I clean the worst spots with water, cover them with Band-Aids, and pull on the dry socks.

The change helps more than the aspirin.

Next, I take off my jacket and examine my shoulder. The fence tore a long, shallow line across the skin rather than cutting deeply. I clean it as well as I can, press fresh gauze over it, and change into the spare shirt before putting the jacket back on.

The shirt is one of George’s.

He gave it to me months ago after mine tore during drills, and I never returned it. The sleeves are too short, and the faded picture of a tractor stretches across my chest.

Seeing it makes my throat tighten.

I wonder whether he is awake yet. I wonder if Conrad has searched his things or accused him of helping me. George would tell the truth because George always tells the truth, even when it gets him punished.

He did not know.

I hope they believe him.

Outside, a car moves along the county road. I hear it slow, then continue south.

The deputies may expand the roadblock. The dog teams may reach this part of the woods once daylight improves. I should study the map and decide where to go next.

Instead, I sit with my back angled away from the wall and listen.

The blind gives me sightlines in every direction. Through one slit, I can see the stretch of woods I crossed. Through another, I can see a thin strip of road between the trees. If anyone approaches, I should have enough warning to climb down and run.

My body does not believe that last part.

The adrenaline that carried me through the fence and away from the dogs is gone. Without it, I feel every cut, bruise, and swollen muscle. My eyelids close before I can stop them.

I force them open again.

Sleeping here is dangerous. The owner might return. A deputy might check hunting structures. If I sleep too deeply, I may not hear the ladder move.

I take the utility knife from the pack and place it beside my hand, not because I plan to use it on anyone but because holding it makes me feel less helpless.

Then I pull the map into my lap and try to focus on the roads.

The lines blur.

I blink until they become clear again, trace the route south with one finger, and choose a farm far from the main road. There may be an unlocked shed or clothes hanging in a mudroom. There may be a phone.

I only need to stay here until the roadblock clears or darkness returns.

My eyes close again.

This time, I allow them to remain shut while I listen for dogs, engines, voices, or the creak of weight on the ladder.

Nothing comes.

For the first time since I climbed through Smithton’s fence, I let my body stop moving.