here’s nothing I hate more than running. And it’s not only because of the physical activity of it, the shortness of breath, or the screaming of the muscles demanding I end the torture. It’s the memories that come with running. Knox and I ran as hard as our small feet could carry us when we decided Mum’s roof wasn’t the one we’d stay under. We ran and ran in the dirty streets. We ran after we stole food from the market. We ran after we heard a policeman’s whistle, even if we hadn’t done anything. In our small minds, we believed the police would find us for the stolen food and take us back to
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