On the Run by Tristan Bancks Page A

did.
    â€œMm-hm,” Olive said, sucking her thumb now while holding the flashlight.
    Ben blinded himself for a moment by looking into the flashlight beam.
    â€œStop sucking your thumb.”
    â€œYou’re not my dad.”
    No. And you wouldn’t listen to me if I was .
    Ben felt the saw go all the way through the timber for the first time.
    â€œGive me the flashlight!” he said, blowing sawdust aside. He lay down and put his eye to the crack, trying to squeeze the flashlight as close to his eye as he could. Through the tiny slit, Ben could see corrugated iron on the ground and lots of old bottles. This pinprick of hope pushed him up off the floor, and he worked double time, hacking away like his life depended on it. And maybe it did. He would have to cut through three floorboards to make a hatch wide enough to escape. His hand ached like when he was forced to write for a long time at school, but it was easier now that he could push and pull all the way through the board. After almost an hour he had cut across an entire floorboard. He pried it up, and the rusty nails near the wall bent and twisted and the board came away.
    â€œYa-a-a-a-a-a-y!” Olive said, shining the flashlight into the gap. Ben used the piece of floorboard to scrape away the twisted mass of spiderwebs beneath and reached his arm down into the outside world, laughing for the first time that day. Breeze. He could almost touch bare earth.
    â€œLet me, let me!” Olive said. She lay down and spat into the hole. “Coooooooeeeee!” Her voice skittered into the night.
    Ben shoved her aside and began cutting the second board.
    â€œWe’re like burglars,” Olive said, climbing back into her camping chair. “Except we’re trying to get out, not in.”
    Ben smiled at her weirdness. The feeling in the cabin had changed now. Hope had blown in. The rain had settled into a steady sprinkle.
    â€œThat’s cool,” Olive said. “I’m a burglar!”
    â€œNow you just have to become a judge and your life will be complete.”
    â€œI’d need a wig for that.”
    Ben heard a noise and stopped sawing. A bird or animal scratching the tin roof.
    â€œThis is a secret, okay?” he said. “A proper secret. Like, if they come back, we cannot say anything about it … or you’re dead.”
    Olive nodded and yawned. It was around nine o’clock, Ben reckoned. She went to bed at eight at home. He wondered what they would do once they had made it through the three boards. Would they really go out into the night by themselves, the only humans in all that inky forest-ness? And what then—tomorrow and the day after?
    *   *   *
    They’re not coming back. The annoyingly honest and fearful part of Ben’s mind whispered these words. He hated them now, and hated himself for making them go. Why did he think he could play detective? He slipped with the saw and cut the top of his finger. The pointer, right where he had sliced it on the sharp reed down by the river. Fresh blood spilled from the slit onto the floorboards. He put the finger to his lips and sucked for a few seconds, then pressed down hard on the cut with his thumb, trying to stop the flow. It stung but he knew that he had to keep working. Two boards to get through.
    They’re not coming back. These words helped him to saw faster and harder. Droplets of blood spat onto the floor. Twin angels of fear and anger drove him on. It was easier now with one floorboard gone. Three-quarters of an hour later he was through another and he started on the third and final board. He wondered if the saw on his knife was getting blunt. He sawed until he forgot about his parents, forgot why he was sawing, and eventually he pulled up the third board.
    They were free to leave.
    He looked up. Olive had her eyes closed, resting her head against the window frame. He poked her. “Hey, we’re