The building had large plate windows on all sides with views onto the surrounding fields: yellowing knee high grass interlaced with poppies red as a fresh scald. A flash of black and white cut the yellow – a swallow skimming up gnats in its scalpel sharp beak.
‘What’s to stop me running?’ asked Nick.
The guard threw a rock that arced so high it vanished in the glare of the sun. ‘You can run,’ he said.
A bang. A shower of earth. A flutter of black and white feathers.
‘But remember freedom is a state of mind, son.’