Then I sprinted in the direction the blue van had gone. I ran hard, making up for lost time. I wanted to see what the rat-faced guy with the broken wrist was doing. No camp-dweller was bothered by me running. They were doing other things. Probably had seen worse, or more bizarre. Probably were getting used to the occasional violent outburst. Par for the course in transient communities.

The blue Mercedes Sprinter was parked on a sandy trail alongside a cluster of cheap one, or two-man camping tents. A red cord had been strung up between trees, several sleeping bags were hung from it, airing out I guessed. The back of the van was open and guys were getting out in torn-up athletic shoes or plastic shower slippers. Their feet were covered in a lighter color dust or sand that was leaving traces on the darker trail.

The migrants looked as if they hadn’t seen daylight in a while. They gazed around bewildered and bleary-eyed in dusty clothes. They were mostly young, but not exclusively so. They were exclusively male. I was looking at a human trafficking operation. This was the culmination of an epic journey, or at least an important point on that journey.

The guys were brushing themselves off. A light cloud of dust, like fine cake flour, hung in the air. They were getting oriented to their new surroundings. The forest, the garbage, the other people making camp with them. The tents and sleeping bags must have been part of the deal; passage to the camp, inclusive of tent. I stayed back far enough to observe without being seen. Figured I’d wait a while.

Rat-face from the train station was sipping out of a tall energy-drink can. He held a cigarette in his wounded hand and alternated between cigarette and can. He was talking to a couple of guys dressed, like him, in branded sportswear. Rat-face said something quick and then turned and walked off.

I figured they had a toilet facility of some kind. Even ant colonies arrange separate living, waste and burial areas. I decided that I was going to have a conversation with him, so I followed.

The guy walked stiffly, making short little steps. I tracked him for a few minutes, screened by trees. He was absorbed by the sweet drink and his cigarette. Up ahead, a large wooden shack. At least a couple of hundred yards from the nearest tent. I could smell it and it smelled bad.

As he approached, rat-face dropped his cigarette into the can, then chucked the can idly onto the ground. Which erased any residual sympathy I might have had for him. Given that he was a mugger, possible accessory to murder, and a human trafficker. Now add littering slob. He began loosening his waistband before entering the shack.