There was no moon visible in the sky as Connor McBride sprinted through the landfill-turned-refugee-camp north of Calais. The air smelled of smoke and sweat. Ahead, someone or something darted through the light of a campfire, casting shadows that flickered and danced as the wind whipped the flames. Connor staggered left, avoiding the ropes and pegs of tents jammed at odd angles into the dirt. As he barreled through the glow of the campfire, he was aware of someone calling out to him in French, a friendly voice lost under the sound of panting breath and blood pounding in his ears.

The thing he was chasing swerved right, away from the searing brightness of a floodlight. Eyes darting after it, Connor saw the path the thing was following: cutting through the tents and shacks, across a patch of tarmac road, and into the maze of shipping containers that made of the rest of the camp. Someone screamed in fright. Chest burning and arms pumping at his sides, pushing himself harder and harder, Connor felt the distance between him and the runaway creature getting larger. If it got away from him now, there was a chance he wouldn't find it again, not in the disarray of the camp.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”