The State of the Lonely
I drive across the border again, my bags tied tightly to my shoulders to make sure they dont get lost. They drag me down, but will protect my back from griffin-fletched arrows, so I leave them on. There are no signs, but I am going nowhere, so it doesn’t matter. We have come to sit and wait.
Everyone is there. You can cross the border in pairs, but oddly, nobody does. They assume that the people who hold relief all dwell in that other country, and they walk around as if not surrounded by people. We bump into others before hurrying off to our corners, afraid that we might miss our chance to connect.
