Freedom came to him like Cohen’s bird on a wire. He feared the wire he balanced his fragile existence upon would clip his wings as he slept one night and he would never fly again. The wind could come at any moment and carry him to his death below. Freedom was a fickle gift anyway. He skirted his way through passengers to the car door and tried to remember that sign he’d seen in a photo of a Nazi concentration camp. Arbeit macht frei. Yes, he thought, that was it. Self-sacrifice would bring them freedom.
Illaam ran up the subway exit to Bloor Street looking up and down the crowded flurry of Monday morning pedestrians; everyone had somewhere so important to get to that elbowing him for space was par for the course. For a moment he forgot his destination and his heart began to beat rapidly. Destination, from Destin, French for fate. He tried taking a deep breath but only gasped on the damp foggy diesel scent of the city. It didn’t smell like his city, the one he had known as a boy. But this wasn’t the time for reminiscing – he had to find his way to Station D51.