10:11 PM, DJIBOUTI, DJIBOUTI

Bouh loved to run. He felt like he was flying when he did it, and moved like wind as well. So fast. He was running through a dark alley now, ducking behind a battered fence, and it was fun no longer. The dogs wouldn’t be tricked by his move, and would come for him. He knew he would be dragged down, bitten fiercely on the calves and ankles. He knew he was going to die, end up in the bellies of some wandering curs with distended bellies and matted fur. He strained, his legs beginning to writhe beneath him like limpid snakes as he tired. Only a matter of time now, before they caught him. No sense in shouting, for no one would help. It was a dark time in Djibouti. But he hadn’t expected to die so soon. At thirteen, he hadn’t really gotten to do all of the things he wanted yet. He wanted to go to high school. He wanted to run track. He thought he could do it, maybe even try for the Olympics one day. He did everything fast, everyone said so. He flashed his hand right, then bolted left around some old houses. He had learned that trick in american football, which he sometimes played with theolder boys in the dusty field around where he slept. Somewhere, he knew that it would not fool his pursuers, that they wouldn’t even understand such a move, that his finesse and skill were wasted on their relentless, predatory menace. It was at that moment that his step faltered. He slid on the sand and gravel, skinning his legs and losing precious time. Too fast. He’d been running so fast and distracted and he slipped. He did everything fast, everyone said so. This time, he would die too fast. But with three wild dogs gnawing at his arms and belly, wrestling to reach his throat, he realized it wouldn’t be fast enough.