Crossing

The guard sneers, raising his gun at the man worn by the long road. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘To the free lands,’ the man replies through sunburnt lips.

‘Go back where you came from.’

‘Where I come from I see the dead in the street and ponder if that will be my grave too.’

The rifle is cocked. ‘Last warning.’

‘You set me free anyway.’

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