Every now and again she would stop and look up over the milling heads of the crowd to where brown mountains rose in the distance. They must be in Athens already, she would tell herself, and then she would start to cry. Every now and again a woman, usually a young woman, would start wailing at Zoë, grabbing for her so that she would have to scramble to get away. These women always called out to her by name, but it was never her name. So she kept weaving through the forest of legs, shivering with fear, not staying still long enough for anybody’s eyes to rest on her, even though all she craved was the comfort of a soft voice, a gentle hand. She followed the desperate, jostling lines of people to where food was doled out. It wasn’t really food, just water with cabbage, bits of gristle and bone floating in it, but she slurped it down and wanted more, though there wasn’t any more to be had. Eventually she found a place to sleep under some folded tarpaulins near one of the medical tents and curled up, rigid with fear, as the sun set and turned the crowd blood red.