The plan was daring, to say the least. Breathtaking. Audacious. If it worked, it would only work once. So any attempt at it was a one-time chance, a desperate grab for all the marbles.

Their rooms were two stories above the ground, but their windows opened to a rooftop that sloped downward to the edge. According to Rita, there was a rain gutter out there made of a hard metal, like steel or iron. It was not flimsy. She knew this because she had climbed down it on a couple of occasions during the middle of the night to visit a boy in one of the other dorms.

Escape Mode involved Rita preparing to go to Geneva on a weekend night. Meanwhile, Elizabeth would pretend to turn in early—while also preparing for a night out. Rita would call for a car service to pick her up. When the car came, Rita would go downstairs like she always did. Elizabeth would sit inside with the TV set on, loud. Elizabeth had been watching the TV with the sound way up for months, on the off chance she would ever get the guts to try Escape Mode.

With the TV on, Elizabeth would then slide out the window she had opened earlier, cross the roof silently, shimmy down the rain gutter, drop to the ground, then run for the driveway turnaround where the car would be parked.

Once she was inside the car, they would head for the gates of the school. The car’s windows would be blacked, and according to Rita, security on the way out of campus was cursory—a wave-through—compared to how it was on the way in.

If they made it through the gates, for once in her life Elizabeth would be free. Rita would take her to Club Baroque, where the dance music DJs played, and they would dance to house music in a packed nightclub until the place closed. Then they would go for food and coffee, and get back here at dawn.

It was the crime of the century. There were boys who lived in Geneva—their families were in banking—whom Rita hung out with. Sometimes they came to campus during visiting hours. One of them was a very handsome young guy from Turkey named Ahmet. He was thin, with curly black hair and skin the shade of coffee—light and sweet, Rita called it. He wore American-style clothes. He spoke English. He was normal—not like a lot of Arab guys, who were religious fanatics.

Were Turkish guys Arabs? Elizabeth wasn’t sure about that. But Rita had told Elizabeth that Ahmet thought she was cute.

Rita handed Elizabeth the pencil. She tapped the words Escape Mode? Elizabeth made a quick scrawl in response.

Yes.