Free Variant by Robison Wells

trees and around fallen logs. It was getting darker, and I slowed enough to pick a good path. I didn’t want to fall and ruin my chance for escape.
    My chest was burning as I pushed myself to keep jogging. From the drive in, I guessed that it was about a mile from the school to the wall, and maybe another half mile to the fence. Then again, there was no way of knowing whether it formed a perfect circle around the school. Maybe the wall encompassed other things, too?
    I could hear the revving engine of a four-wheeler somewhere behind me. This was it. Trying to escape was one of the big rules. It meant detention.
    I was gasping for air by the time I reached the wall. But there was no way to climb it. Twelve feet up, solid brick.
    I tried finding a foothold, but it was smooth, the mortar coming out to the edge of the bricks. There were no gaps for my fingers or shoes to grab on to.
    The engine was getting close. And I thought I heard a second—or were there three?
    I stared, silent and desperate. Fifty yards to my left a fat raccoon sat on the wall, nervously eyeing me in the twilight.
    How did you get up there?
    Turning my attention to the trees, I looked for one that I could climb—maybe I could get over that way. But someone had planned for that: Between the wall and the nearest trees was a fifteen-foot gap where the vegetation and rocks had been cleared away, leaving only barren dirt. The narrow tire tracks of the four-wheelers were rutted into the earth.
    There had to be some way. I climbed up into the closest pine, slowly grappling with the sticky, sap-speckled limbs. It was difficult in the low light, but in a few minutes I got high enough to see over the wall. There was nothing on the other side but more trees.
    I could hear the engine below me now—not just the engine but the rough sound of tires crunching over rocks and dry sticks. I didn’t waste time looking for it.
    I climbed higher, now almost thirty feet in the air. There was no way I could jump. Even if I miraculously made it over the wall, I’d have broken legs or ankles. And there was still a chain-link fence somewhere on the other side.
    The engine suddenly quieted, dropping down into a low, rumbling idle.
    “Benson!” The voice was harsh and angry. I didn’t recognize it.
    I slipped, catching myself but feeling the tree sway. It only took me a second before I realized that could help me.
    When I shifted my weight back and forth, the pine moved under me. Looking down, I wished that I’d chosen one with a narrower trunk—one that might be more flexible—but it was too late for that. I could already hear another voice on the forest floor below me.
    The tree swung a few feet toward the wall, and then back away. With each movement, I threw my weight into the swing, and soon the tree was shaking back and forth, creaking and rocking. I was working too fast to have a good plan—would it bend over the wall and let me jump? What if all the bending made it snap and fall? If it landed against the wall, I could climb it like a ladder—if I managed to hold on. Either way, I was facing a fall.
    The voices were shouting now. “Benson, get down here!” “You’ll get detention!” “You’re breaking the rules!” I ignored them.
    The creaking got louder and louder, and each slow swing seemed to strain the strength of the wood. It was too late to give up. I was already in the tree, already trying to jump the wall. If I went back down, I’d get detention, whatever that was. I had to keep going.
    As I swung toward the wall I searched for something to break my fall, but the other side of the wall looked like this side—fifteen feet of bare dirt and rocks.
    I had to jump. The Society was already below me. I’d already broken the rule.
    When the pine swung close to the wall my fingers gripped the branch tighter, as if my own body were unconsciously refusing to take such a suicidal leap.
    And I suddenly realized there was something in the forest on the other