I WATCHED HER . . . AND I knew.
The night before, I’d scampered down the mountain until I reached the ridge above Camp Freedom, where I observed Hope at work in the fields. Once, she gave a glance right in my direction. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve said she could sense me.
That’s when it hit me, what we had in common. Pain. Something about those liquid brown eyes and the expression on her face told me she knew pain. That was the quality the two of us shared—and why I had to save her.
So how do I get to her? I wondered. After all, those guards weren’t going anywhere.
I watched as the day went on. I kept thinking about that book I’d read at camp—one of those left in my trunk. The Art of War. There’d been something in there about diversions. All warfare is deception, it had said. The thought stayed with me.
The idea came in the middle of the night.
I circled around the camp until I reached the barn, sneaking inside before the morning arrival of guards or inmates. I found a goat—a kid—and placed a strip of duct tape around his white muzzle. Then I carried him off into the woods until I came to a small mound of boulders.
“Sorry about this,” I said, and the goat looked at me with a fearful expression. “You’ll be free soon enough.”
I pinned one of his legs beneath the rocks so it looked like he’d escaped and gotten stuck. Then I ripped off the tape and ran as fast as I could to the side of the field. As I hurried away, I heard the goat’s bleating, insistent and high-pitched.
I crawled to a hiding place at the edge of the field and waited. It began to pour.
Finally, the gate groaned open and the female prisoners marched out, two dozen of them, surrounded by the same four guards as before. They all wore dark green ponchos because of the rain.
The guards took their stations and the prisoners began chopping away at the muddy, brown canals. Hope was smack-dab in the middle. Figured.
Three of the guards drew together to share a cigarette, and that’s when they heard the goat. They lowered their M16s and swung them toward the woods. When they realized it was animal and not human, they relaxed, slinging their rifles back over their shoulders. The three Brown Shirts gestured to the fourth that they would go investigate.
Once they disappeared into the woods, I launched a pebble from my slingshot. It landed near Hope’s foot. She seemed not to notice. I swore silently and loaded up again. This time the rock bounced off her left boot. Her head snapped up. The other inmates were oblivious.
The guard’s back was turned to me, so I rose to a standing position.
Hope’s eyes went round. Just as quickly she regained her composure and speared her hoe into the sopping earth. I lowered myself back down and waited. The girls worked. The rain fell. The guard watched.
Hope made a motion to the guard: bathroom break. The guard nodded brusquely, watching as the girl marched into the woods. I flattened myself behind the ridge, face digging into mud.
I heard rather than saw Hope making her way toward me. When the trees hid her from the Brown Shirt, she stopped and stared at me.
“What’re you doing here?” she hissed.
“What do you think? I came back to rescue you.”
She snorted with derision. “Who says we need rescuing?”
Her words caught me off guard. So did her attitude. I thought she’d be relieved to see me. Grateful, even. Didn’t she know the sacrifice I’d made to return? Instead, she seemed downright hostile.
“But I thought that was the plan,” I said. “Build a tunnel. Escape to the next territory.”
“Maybe that was the plan—not anymore. What’s the point?”
I didn’t know what to say. How to react. I wondered what happened to the old Hope—and who this imposter was.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “You seem . . . different.”
Her expression changed quicker than the flick of a switch. The anger melted away and her eyes welled with moisture: big, fat tears that spilled over her bottom lids and trailed down her cheeks. When she began to speak, the words were unintelligible.
“I can’t understand you,” I said, leaning in.
Again, her mouth moved, but her words were swallowed by tears.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I still can’t quite . . .”
“Experiments,” she murmured, swiping at a tear with muddy fingertips.
“Go on.”
She gulped for air. “I had a sister.”
“I know,” I said. “Faith.” I was still trying to understand. What did this have to do with anything? Was her sister missing? Did she want me to look for her?
Hope turned away and covered her mouth. I thought she was about to cough, but then I realized: she was sobbing. Her shoulders jerked up and down in a kind of pantomime. Somewhere along the way she had learned to cry silently.
I reached out a hand and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry . . .” I didn’t know what else to say.
She turned and her eyes met mine—I couldn’t help but recoil. It was a look of hopelessness, of a kind of sorrow I’d never seen or experienced. I was about to speak when I noticed the guard squinting in our direction. Hope noticed, too.
“You really want to help?” Hope asked. “Then leave me alone. . . . Don’t ever come back here again.”
Before I could respond, she picked up her hoe and walked back to the field.