Free Crossing the Deadline by Michael Shoulders

right there,” I say, tapping at the bottom.
    â€œI know what the governor’s signature looks like,” the guard growls. “I’ve seen it hundreds of times.” He shouts over his shoulder to a man talking to a lady near the street. “Sergeant Whitson!”
    â€œAnd that’s his signature,” I say, tapping the paper again.
    â€œThe governor sent you?” the guard asks Henry, whose eyes are now the size of silver dollars.
    â€œAhhh, yes, sir. He sent me, indeed. I mean . . .” He looks at me.“The governor, that is, sent the two of us. He sent the two of us to find, ahhh, Williams.”
    â€œWhy did he send you?” the guard asks.
    I have to bail Henry out. “I told you. Because I know John Williams. . . . Well . . . I know of him. He’s a tad bit older than me, and we went to school together . . . well . . . at the same time. . . . Him being older than me, I don’t really know him. Look, I don’t have time to explain all this to you. It’s right there on the paper, and it’s an order from the governor for me to come here to find Williams and ask him one simple question. And it’s almost dark,” I insist.
    â€œAnd you know Williams?” the guard asks Henry.
    â€œAhhhh, no, sir, I don’t know him at all. Never laid eyes on him . . . ever,” Henry answers.
    â€œ I kinda know Williams,” I say, stressing the word “I.” “ We went to school together. Look, nobody likes him on account that he’s a no-good copperhead.” I spit on the ground. “The whole family’s a bunch of copperheads.” I spit again.
    Henry shakes his head quickly. “No-good copperheads,” he repeats, and spits, appearing a bit more confident, too.
    â€œActually, I know the governor better than I know Williams. Governor Morton invited me to his house back inCenterville to give me a gift,” I add for dramatic effect. “Lovely house he and Mrs. Lucinda have.”
    While the guard looks down to examine the paper, Henry taps me on the shoulder and points to a sergeant approaching.
    â€œI’d hate to be in your boots if I don’t see Williams and get his answer back to the governor before dark,” I say in a rush.
    The guard folds the paper, hands it back to me, and waves off the sergeant. “I’ve got it taken care of, Sarge.”
    â€œWhen you walk in, don’t stop before crossing the deadline,” he warns.
    I look at Henry, then back to the guard. “Deadline?”
    â€œThere’s a line on the ground twenty feet from the wall,” he says. “You’ll know it when you see it. Anytime somebody is between the wall and the deadline, the guards have authority to shoot. They may give a warning shot . . . but odds are they won’t. It doesn’t matter if you’re a prisoner or Governor Morton himself—you’re liable to wake up dead.”
    â€œWake up dead. That’s funny,” I say to the guard. “I like that.”
    The guard does not react. “When I open the gate, walk quickly into the compound. Don’t stop until you’ve crossed the deadline.”
    â€œCrossed the deadline,” Henry repeats, nodding.
    The guard walks back a few steps to the wooden gate. He raises the latch, and we walk into Camp Morton.
    * * *
    Once inside, we take twenty quick paces before stopping just past a white line on the ground.
    â€œYou never said we were going inside a prison camp,” Henry says sternly.
    â€œSo, what are you ’fraid of?”
    â€œAfraid of?” he says in disbelief. “Stephen, we’re inside a prison.”
    The enclosure is surrounded by a plank wall as tall as a house. Nearby, a long line of crude buildings that look like they were built as sheds extends away from us. A small ravine, narrow enough to throw a rock across, slopes down and ends at a shallow stream. The slope rises on the other side to