I managed an appreciative look, masking my newfound hatred of porridge. Salted or sweet, it was a meal I would never ingest again.

Once she’d left the room, I sneaked to the toilet down the hall and disposed of the god-awful glob. I was hurrying back when a sight sparked a memory, tempering my pace.

Piled in a wheeled cart were beige canvas bags. They were stuffed with dirty sheets for tomorrow’s weekly pickup, all to be laundered and returned three days later to swap with our second sets. The mayor, adhering to a campaign promise—cemented by a photo session at the orphanage—had secured the complimentary service. With it came not only the carts but also the rope-tied sacks, which in that moment reminded me quite a lot of a mailbag…the kind Houdini used for escapes…

Alone in the hall, I tilted a sack in the heap, assessing.

The bag could plainly accommodate my size. Though serving as an enclosure, it was relatively flimsy and, if positioned sideways, could remain wide open, allowing plenty of air and light while being transported.

On several past Tuesdays, just after six in the morning, a rumbling engine had drawn me to the window above my cot. I’d peered down at the alley, where the driver dropped a ramp off the rear of his delivery truck and retrieved the laundry from the kitchen. It was an efficient system, not loading and unloading each individual bag, only the carts. Ones that were taken miles from this place.

The scheme was almost too simple to work. In fact, as I pondered it throughout the day’s school lessons, that very worry pestered me—notably without any distracting taunts from Ingrid.

The girl remained stoic. Given the purple bruise on her cheek, chances were high she was plotting retaliation. To ensure I wouldn’t be around to find out, I conjured Houdini’s mentality by exploring every potential method for escape.

Word had it park outings were in store for us once the rainy season subsided. But strict chaperoning would pose a challenge, and besides, I wasn’t about to wait that long. As for doors on the main floor, they required a key, even from inside, and fire escapes were accessible from staff quarters only.

The windows downstairs were nailed shut—after teenagers allegedly fled through them years before—and the upper-floor windows were too high for a safe drop. Shimmying down a rope of sheets might have been an option if it didn’t mean waking my entire bedroom, where nervous Nellie was liable to sound an alarm. After all, her observing a show past curfew was one thing; enabling a breakout was another.

With every alternative ruled out, I retired onto my cot that night, firm in my choice.

Chapter 18

Four gongs rang out from the grandfather clock. A sheer black sky had blotched out the windows, their panes flickering with the candle’s yellow glow.