Out from my pocket I pull again to look at the implacable pink lot that tells me that I am drafted. I stumble along in a boulevard so wide the opposite side seems to sit on the horizon and the whole world bulging in between me and there.
The city washes by me and its outlines dance and glitter as they will, playing their fairy games with me.
My mind is too tired and weak from travel to do much of it. I take step after step, feeling the street and the city existing all around me, like figuring out all the parts of an unfamiliar flavor. The sky showers the street in volleys of sharp light. I walk into Tref unremarked as a ghost, and now this is me, here, in its bare broad avenues. Why is the station so far out of the city limits anyway? Most likely a collusion between the builders of stations and the builders of long roads. One flash of the sun and I am down in its streets. Overhead, the sun is lost in a white sky without circumference, above the flashing waters of the city. The city below me is like a shining, smoking lake, thrusting its troubled glints into my eyes and making them smart. I'm standing in the pass, to one side of the pumice road, looking down from my perch on the massed roots of some dusty old cork oaks. It's through rags of fast-moving smoke that I first catch sight of Tref. They say you might change your mind about that when the country is invaded and your people are suffering wrong, but for me this is all just more horror, more army-horror.
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