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burning, my socks are twisting around my shins. My gait is
aggressive, ugly, but I keep an enviable distance – see ya’
later, sucker! – and he turns off, as if he’d been planning to
go that way all along, to avoid defeat. Because he can’t pass
me. Now that I’ve gone into sprint mode, there’s no turning
back. Full speed ahead. Sweat pours down, gluing my
eyelids shut, drenching my eyebrows – I can’t see and have
no idea where I’m going, but the running continues, I run
and run.
>>>
From control point CP-9 to control point CP-8
I had this dream with my eyes wide open: wilderness
orientation.
Pioneer camp. A Spec Ops orienteering race through the
woods, the thick grass in the rain. Xenon, the camp dog, a
big, black German shepherd, zigzags left and right, but –
thanks to his border guard genes – doesn't bark.
We run around using compasses to search for invisible
lines, azimuths, hidden among the trees. Once we guess the