He has the envelope, packed neatly.And on the opposite corner of the street there’s a postbox.How likely is it that the postal service is still working here?He’d heard in the camp that it did still work in the larger villages, the towns and cities.Things have broken down on the border and in the mountains, but they’re miles from the border and the mountains now.There’s a time listed for a pickup tomorrow.Maybe there will be no car.Maybe he’ll end there, thrown out onto the road between one town and the next, used and torn.Maybe there’ll be a blonde woman with a hat who’ll take the money she’s being paid for this and say she’s crossed the border.She’ll let him out of the car to run in the direction she tells him is freedom, but there’ll be no freedom there, only the forest and the chase and the end of it in the soil, one way or another.It suddenly seems a remarkably stupid thing to have trusted his whole life to Roxanne Monke.There is a car coming.He sees it from a long way off, its headlights sweeping the dirt road.He has time to write a name on this package, and an address.Not Nina, obviously not.It is a terrible idea.If he doesn’t come through this, there is one name and mailing address he could write on this package which would make sure the images would
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