Trying to outrun danger is a tiring and disorienting race. When one runs, not to get somewhere, but to get away. When the goal is just ‘not here…not, there’ both here and there have lost any meaning. Any direction out is all that counts. What to save from the fox? What to take with us, when the place we are going is just ‘not here’. Refugees. Migrants. They know what I’m describing. It’s when Hell is so close that anyplace else is freedom, an invitation to a banquet, even if it’s a paper bag with old shoes and a mouldy crust. Not running. At peace. She’s looking so peaceful. That’s what they say of all the dead and gone. Because it’s irrefutable. They are not here. Not with us, who might have been able to love them, save them, feed them, listen to their stories, let them be somewhere. Here. With us. Just like us. Alone. Maybe afraid. On the run. Toward somewhere safer. Somewhere really safe.