Jumping trains. They call this room the pod. Outside it's slatted, curved, a brown tortoise shell.
Inside I distribute metazopine, tramadol, methadone to the rapists, murderers and others.
Sometimes it is silent, sometimes we will talk.
Yesterday morning I was with Wai. Wai takes a cocktail for his brain, his bones and back.
There is no family, no money, no hope of staying.
Wai thinks he is set for Rwanda or a return to a prison cell.
No one seems to care. Often he sits alone, weeping in the garden.
I ask him about his journey from...
Eritrea to West Yorkshire.
A jumped train a coming.
Under the tunnel, in the cold.
At home, jumping trains was easy. Town to town, track to track.
It was as simple as tying a shoelace, as natural as taking a step.
Wai says other parts of the journey weren't so easy.
18 days walking through the desert.
60 men, women, children and dogs.
18 days and 18 dead.
Starved, dehydrated, slashed or shot.
Days and nights without an end.
Someone in the lounge is coughing.
Someone is knocking at the door.
Yeah, jumping trains was easy.
I note that his right foot has only three toes.
He is a grumpy person.
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