Page 8 of Lost and Bound

“All the furniture and appliances can go. Any food or perishables can go too. Same with the linen, Dad’s tools and all Mom’s cooking stuff. They’d want others to have them, hopefully they get as much from them as we did. I mean, it’s not a lot, but it was enough. Please keep my pencil case, though. I can’t remember what box it’s in, or if I even put it in a box or left it on the table or hid it in my bag, but I need that pencil case.”

Mr. Kenney squats behind me, rubbing my shoulders. “You have so much of their fight and generosity in you, Maya. I’ll find your pencil case, store any photos, and all the smaller things for you. We will see each other again. I know it.”

If he notices my hands shaking and the tears tracking down my face, as I decide what I need and what I don’t, he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t hurry me along, even though behind us its pure chaos. He just keeps rubbing my back and telling me everything is going to be okay.

Once I decide on what to take and we’ve packed everything into a new backpack, the noise and pace of what is happening around us comes back online along with a growing sense of urgency.

“Are you ready?” he says, leading me out of Williem’s consulting room.

I go to shake my head, but a small twitch of pain makes me use words to answer him instead. “No. Not at all. But yes too. I know I’ll be fine, I just don’t want to leave.”

My words are kind of honest; I mean, I’m mostly sure I’ll be okay. The thought of being in the wildlands is completely overwhelming and terrifying, but so is the thought of being forever hunted by enforcers. I honestly think I have a better chance of survival outside of the city I’ve grown up in.

At the back door, a delivery truck sits idling. Its door is open, giving me the chance to see where I’ll be sitting or lying. I feel a bit naïve, not realizing how prepared the community center is for these situations. I’ve been involved, and I knew the center helped people who were displaced, but they contain how widespread their assistance is by only involving people in small parts of the operation.

“I know that look. Plausible deniability is a strategy that’s been used throughout history and will continue to be once we are both gone from this world,” Mr. Kenney says. “Our aim has always been to protect and keep people safe, and that includes our staff. Not knowing everything in its entirety is a lot safer. And it doesn’t discount how proud I am to have watched you traverse the past few years. You’ve got something magical inside you, Maya, and I’ve never needed a test to see that. Trust who you are, and everything will work out.”

I’ve always known I wasn’t au fait with everything behind the scenes, and I never wanted to be. I just wanted to do my part in helping those in need. There’s certainly nothing in his admission to get upset at, and what stands out most is that he’s seen our friendship similarly to how I have too. I’ll be forever grateful for our paths crossing.

We move to hug each other. “Find a place to call home and take the time to look up at the stars. They’re the same ones I’ll be looking at, the same ones your parents always did too.”

I squeeze harder. “I’m going to find a way to come back one day so I can see Ted and make sure someone fixes those bloody stairs. Thank you for everything.”

I push out of his arms and climb into the cubby space under where the boxes sit in the van. With a final wave, Mr. Kenney puts my bags near my feet and lowers the lid. There’s a snick, as a latch falls into place, and then I hear the boxes being moved around. My heart nearly beats out of my chest as panic and fear crash through me, making me feel like I’m about to pass out. The darkness doesn’t help at all, and as I’m lying down my head throbs, but this discomfort and mild suffering is nothing compared to what the enforcers would do.

Instead of getting caught up in what I can’t currently change, I force myself to rest. I jerk awake when the engine under me cuts off and the sound of footsteps echo. The latch near my head clicks undone, and then, like when they hid me away, someone unpacks the boxes on top of my hiding spot. When the lid cracks open, I see the lights in the van are off and the sky is dark, hiding the driver’s face.

I’ve seen him around, but I don’t know his name and he doesn’t introduce himself.

“Do you remember the map? We’re north of where the original crossing was, but this is another weak spot in the wall. A crew of enforcers were here last night, so they shouldn’t be back for a while, plus we’re arranging a couple of diversions. Don’t linger, don’t look back. Keep your wits about you and try not to stop until this time tomorrow. The important thing is to keep on moving. You don’t have to travel fast, but don’t stop.”

I climb out of the box, my body sore from lying down. He passes over a bottle and waves at me to drink it, so I do in one gulp before passing it back.

After I have my backpack on and my pockets full of as much food as I can handle, he points me to where I need to go. I hop out and give him a quick hug of thanks before I do what he said—walk without turning back.

In the media and all the propaganda, the wall the government built to protect us is nothing at all like the wall I’m facing. The mesh wire fence is high, I’ll give them that, but there’s no concrete at all. Clearly, the fence surrounding us is another of their lies.

I’m sure I’m fixating on the details as a way of coping, but it works as a way not to get overwhelmed by what I’m about to do, which is to scale an impossibly high fence, an illegal thing to do, and a dangerous one too. So I set my sights on what is in front of me as I start to climb and keep climbing until I’ve scaled to the height that I have to figure out how to get through the barbed wire top.

I definitely don’t look down.

Pushing on the wire, the tension means it barely moves, and I simply won’t fit through the gap. But as I shove against the fence more vigorously, I see a spot farther along that has more give. I scurry sideways to the weak point, and as soon as I’m there, I can see and feel that the tightness is different. It will be a squeeze, but I’ll be able to fit through the narrow gap.

The motion of unclipping my backpack makes me sway, which is great for getting through to the other side but bad for my spinning head. I have to grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut until the dizziness passes. As soon as it does, I don’t waste any more time. I drop my bags to the ground before I wiggle my way through the gap, then clamber down the other side of the fence.

My hands are sore from the wire mesh and my muscles hurt from holding on, but I’ve survived the trauma of my parents dying, so this is a piece of cake. Well, that’s what I keep repeating to myself as I ready myself to do the whole thing again.

The second time is easier, and I scale up and down like a rock climber, spurred on by how close I am to escape. I also panic at how long it’s taking me to climb these damn fences. This is probably the most vulnerable time of my escape. If any enforcer saw me, there would be no questions asked and my life would be over.

As soon as my feet touch the ground, I strap a bag to my front and one to my back. I force myself to wait a few seconds, to triple-check that I’m alone and no one is watching. The pause brings clarity. My night vision settles in, and I’m figuring out which way I need to go when a noise stops me dead in my tracks.

I drop into a ball, not moving a muscle, while my heart thuds so loudly it drowns out any noises around me. I know it’s dangerous, so I stay frozen until my pulse isn’t racing and my hearing returns. It takes a few minutes before I can hear the night critters over the jet engine blazing in my ears. I stay still for a little longer and am about to stand up when I hear the noise again.

But this time, I hear it differently, not like something imaginary is chasing me. It’s whisper quiet, but once you’ve heard something in pain, you recognize the sound.

I turn slowly, moving cautiously to where the noise is coming from. Maybe it’s a horrible idea, searching it out—it might be a trap too—but I can’t leave something suffering. And I also think it’s better to face whatever it is head-on.

Closer, it’s easier to hear whatever is making the noise, and when I creep around a bush, I can see what it is.