I’d watched old black and white movies depicting those travellers, thought how hard life was back then and somewhat admired the lengths to which desperate men would go to find paying work. Our presence on the back of the freight train wasn’t for such a noble cause, but Rink and I were equally desperate. The train was the only available mode of transport that could outrun the convoy of vehicles that dogged our trail all the way to Imuris. In those old movies, the hobos took whatever opportunity they could to leave the moving train, because they could not allow themselves to be found aboard by station guards who’d first beat them, then throw them in jail on vagrancy charges. Usually they were depicted leaping from fast-moving trains into discreetly placed haystacks or rivers to cushion their fall. We didn’t expect or receive such luxury. When we jumped it was on to sun-baked soil as resilient as concrete. The impact in both my heels was redirected all the way up to the crown of my head, despite my effort to tuck and roll, and for a few minutes afterwards I worried that I’d lost a full inch in height.
