I could just about make out the black wall: a police cordon approaching, unearthly gas masks covering countless faces. They were getting closer and closer …. Then out of the ethereal haze, a little voice. A kid, no older than six. He held out an onion.
We ran fast, up towards the Hill of the Brave – a stampede through quiet suburbia …. We had avoided the immediate danger, I thought …. Then something hit me on the head. I kept falling and falling, floating in an eddy of musty air. I hit the ground. I was dead
I handed over my fake passport and fixed my gaze on the shiny bit of the lens of my glasses, feeling, somehow, that I could hide there. The guard nodded and gave me the passport back. I slipped through to the other side, desperately fighting the urge to run
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