Free Girl in the Shadows by Gwenda Bond

about to do something with it, and marched to the very entrance of the circus tent.
    When I got there, I took a deep breath, and then turned to face a not-small audience who’d gathered around.
    “We think of Harry Houdini when we talk of the art of escape,” I said.
    I dropped the straitjacket and removed my coat—taking the handcuffs out and handing them to a little girl in a Frozen T-shirt at the front of the pack. “Can you hang on to these for me?” I asked her.
    She nodded solemnly and took them.
    “But many women have also completed escapes just as great as Houdini’s,” I said, projecting my voice. “From a woman named Minerva in the 1900s, who Houdini had shut down because she was competition, to Dorothy Dietrich, one of the greatest escape artists of all time, still alive today. And what’s a favorite to escape from? The straitjacket.” I picked it up so they could see it. “You can see why. The sleeves are sewn shut at the ends to prevent use of the hands, and are then pulled tight across the front of the chest and fastened in the back. Additional straps at the back and through the legs make it impossible even for someone with adrenaline surging through their body, increasing their strength tenfold, to get free. The inescapability of a straitjacket is the whole point.”
    I held out my hands to the little girl and waved her forward. A face-painter had left an elephant on her cheek, the only place you’d find one of those noble giants at the Cirque. “Do the handcuffs feel real?” I asked her. “Are they strong?”
    She nodded, blue eyes giant. Her willowy mother had one hand on her shoulder but didn’t protest.
    “And would you take a look at this straitjacket and confirm that it feels real too? If it’s okay with your mom.”
    The little girl eagerly stepped forward, and the woman removed her hand to let her.
    As if I’d assigned her the world’s most important task, she did as I asked. She pulled at the canvas with her small hands, tested the straps. She still held my cuffs, the small key protruding from the lock.
    Randomly, I found myself thinking again of the penny Dez had given me, still in my pants pocket. I was a fool for keeping it in the first place. I should give it to the little girl. Get rid of it.
    I didn’t.
    “Are you satisfied there’s no trick to this garment?” I asked her.
    “Yes,” she said, her voice as small as she was but steady and confident.
    “Now,” I said, and swallowed for effect, faking nervousness about what was to come. “I’ll need two volunteers to help me get into the straitjacket.”
    The little girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve, and the woman stepped forward. A frat-type boy in cargo shorts was the other volunteer. They picked up the straitjacket. “Just pull it onto my arms and into place,” I instructed.
    Who knew what might happen with me trapped inside the straitjacket?
    But my magic had been MIA all day, so it was a chance I decided to take. I raised my arms to fit into the long sleeves. The angle was important; I kept my shoulders wide, pulling as much air as I covertly could into my lungs. A small amount of wiggle room could make all the difference in an escape, no matter what the restraint.
    There was an awkward moment as they negotiated holding on to each side, and then the rough canvas slipped across my skin. The woman stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the crowd until they’d pulled the jacket all the way on.
    “Great job,” I said. “Now I need you to tighten all the straps. Don’t make it easy for me to do this—really make them tight.”
    I subtly refilled my lungs as soon as I was done talking, before they started their new assignment.
    “I don’t see how it could be too easy, but okay,” the frat boy said. He got a little too much enjoyment out of vigorously testing each one to make sure it was tight enough, yanking hard. I paid careful attention to the position of my elbows as they secured the arm straps,