54
A line of people stagger from the train towards the vans. The service yard’s stark lighting robs them of all color and transforms them into an undifferentiated mass of arms and legs and bent heads shifting against one another. At this distance it’s hard at first glance to sort out how many people. It’s straight out of a World War II newsreel of refugees.
One of the thugs stands back by the boxcar, watching the door smoothly slide shut. He’s picked up a club somewhere—no, probably a collapsible baton.
I’m pretty sure the taller people in the crowd are the thugs. They loom over the others, raised batons reflecting lines of light. I try to parse out the shuffling figures, and finally guess it’s maybe…a dozen victims? Fifteen? More than ten, less than twenty.
My pulse thrums in my throa
