Dirty Genes

Dingani targets the far exit, the opposite direction as the vendor went. He shoots off, ducking around people, dashing through spaces between buses. He can see the entrance, the green steel fence. Not a sound penetrates his focus. He closes the distance, willing his body to recapture his 200m prowess from Grade 9. He doesn’t hear that police have been alerted, that a small crowd of troops has gathered and is charging in his direction.