It is dusk. Adelaide grabs and kicks at cracks in the concrete, climbing the thick cement wall beyond the workyard. She begins the slow walk of the balancing gymnast, one leg swinging out, returning, teetering, and then the other, repeat. Standing straight, she pauses and looks down to her left, into the workyard. The buildings are gray, surrounded by thick barbed wire fencing. Adelaide remembers how miserable she felt there. She also remembers that she was safe. She was secure. There was a place for her to stay, there was structure, there was security. She sighs and then moves her attention over to the thick wired fence of the perimeter beyond. She shivers at the sight of the steel knots and slowly turns to the right.
The night is growing darker, thicker. All she can make out on this side is the jungle. Gigantic leaves form layer upon overlapping layers, cascading forms from canopied trees, large umbrella plants, and flourishing ground cover. Perhaps there is no ground! She sees some broken brush that may lead to a path, but she is not sure. Again, she shivers — but in fear. There is no security on this side. No one will tell her what to do, where to go. She will have to find her own way. She has never had that freedom. Freedom. There are no fences. There are no overseers. There are no schedules. There are no directives. But . . . she strains her eyes, trying to see the edge of the jungle. The jungles edges merge with the darkness. She doesn’t know what is out there. She has heard tales, both wonderful and horrifying. How does she know what is really true? What is it she will find?
What will she decide? For now, she continues her slow, teetering walk along the fence. She thinks shoe knows what she must do, but she wants to be sure; she wants a sign. So, she does not make the leap. She decides to wait for sunrise.