Tomas had been running ever since high school. He neither knew what from or what to. Running had morphed into the purpose. He was the stone that avoided the moss. a tortoise with a shell replacing the moat of yore. A back-packer inheriting the mantle of the desperate souls humping their swags on outback roads.
As he lay in the sun, listening to the laughter of those around him, Tomas realised, with a start, that he wanted to go home. His leg twitched as a nerve spun out of control. A muscle running down his neck jerked, pulsed, then remained still.
Home! Where on earth did that idea come from? He had not ‘done’ Asia yet. He wanted to walk the foothills of the Himalayas. Duck and weave the tortured lands between the Two Rivers. And yet here he was thinking of spires and cobble-stones, and his father’s weathered hands.