looks down on me. He wears heavy robes, but he looks tall, broad shouldered. He wears a straw hat, but I can tell his hair is like mine, blonde. He wears a thick beard. He almost looks like my father.
I hear bells in the distance. I hear shouting. What do those voices say? It's a language I don't understand. But then I hear it, in my language, in Westernese.
"Escape! Murderer! Escape! Escape! A murderer has escaped!"
I look up at the man on the wagon. He sees the scars on my wrists. He sees the dirt on my face. He sees a tear well up in the corner of my eye. He sees me shake. I know it. He leans forward.
"Yager?"
What do I say? Do I answer yes? What do I say?
"Yager?" He asks again, soft, in a whisper.
If I say yes, is it back to my cell? Is it worse.
"Yager?" More assertive. More forceful.
I feel this might be the last time he asks the question. I look at him, look at his eyes. Blue, icy eyes. I nod.
He hops down. I grip the baton hard. He grabs my elbow and helps me up to the wagon seat. He sits next to me and flicks his reins. The horses begin to trot away.
"Freedom, eh," he says, glaring through a squinted eye.
The tear finally drops along my cheek. I close my eyes and feel fresh air on my face, welcome it for the first time. I grind a blade of grass between my thumb and forefinger. It stains my skin green. I smell it. I smile. I hear the hooves against the ground, the wooden wheels turn over and over again. The man gives me water. It hurts my teeth. I drink more. He gives me an apple. It's so sweet. It hurts my teeth too. After a while, I look over my shoulder. I can see the shadow of a city, far away. I had decided to say nothing, not to ask this man's name, not to ask where they were going, but I couldn't help it.
"Freedom.".