He hung from the top row and dropped down. He'd come with Axel Carlson, an older man, a distant cousin of his grandfather. When Donald reached the ground he couldn't find him anywhere. A mob of people were trying to squeeze out the northwest exit beside the chute, crawling all over one another—dog eat dog. Donald wanted no part of that. He had a fishing knife with him, with a good sharp blade. He unfolded it and tried to cut the rope holding down the tent; it was so thick he would have needed a hacksaw. He stuck the knife into the middle of the wall and worked it down, sawing the tough canvas until he had a fair-sized slit. Left and right at the bottom, left and right at the top, and it was a door big enough for him to get out.He was thinking of nothing but self-preservation, but when the crowd saw it, hundreds poured through behind him. Outside now, he scanned their faces, trying to find Axel Carlson. When he didn't see him, he took his knife to the next panel, cut another door and went back in.The old man was right there, and a little girl no more than three or four, trampled.
