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 The tree trunk curled across the way. Burnt matchstick roots scattered to the dust. So far up into the mountain that those on the ground shrunk to the size of plastic army men pressed about the sand. It was up here that the boy cycled from person to person, grown many times in size by the curvature of the lens. Black lines intersecting over women, men. Other children. 

 Some cooked. Some cleaned pots in the stream that bent around the sanded field where baseball was once played, presently a place to grow leeks. The barbecue pits turned communal kitchens. Earlier a party he tracked back here came on his camp in the night. They had nearly tripped over him as he had imagined himself a stone. Walked on by. He had not seen their faces then. He wondered if he saw them now. 

 It almost did not feel fair, what was going to happen to the people he watched. Before they had a chance to react. That they would go from content and full stomachs to grief. By then he would already be on the move. Impossible to catch. That they shall be afraid to be outside was no victory, but it would bring him some redress.

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