40
Jessa
Twenty-five hours, thirty minutes buried
The kids and I kept talking while Sage scraped away at the plywood like a machine.
I thought of the slick blood I ’ d felt coating her hands, the way she ’ d winced when I touched her torn-up fingers.
Over and over, we told her about all the good things waiting for us when we escaped.
When we escaped.
Never if we escaped .
Lies, my mind kept snarling. False hope . However, to my surprise, what we were doing actually seemed to be working. Above the sound of our affirmations, Sage scraped and clawed at the wood, faster and faster.
Distantly, I realized that all ten of these children, especially Sage, knew my secret. I was a convicted felon. If we got out of here, my tentative attempts at starting a new life would shatter. I’d lose my new job. I might even go back to jail, since I’d broken my parole by lying on the job application.
I ’ d still have a life, though. If we escaped this hellhole, we all would. And that was what mattered.
I was so dizzy and tired I could barely stand. I refused to sit down, though. If Sage was the one up there on top of that mattress stack hour after hour, digging harder than ever, I could at least stay within arm ’ s reach in case she needed me.
Despite the prison counselor ’ s advice—which I ’ d so confidently given to the kids—I ’ d never actually applied it to my own life. But the sound of those little voices calling out with so much courage and optimism in this hot, airless hellhole made me think that it had been a mistake.
Maybe there was something to hope for—all kinds of hope—after all.