Leaving, he looks out of the window, skirting the edge of the silver wing: a tear widens in the quilt of clouds, through which he sees (or thinks he can) miles below, traffic lights blinking their green and amber arrows as rain smears the windscreens of cars and soldiers jump down from dented tanks. He clutches his passport. There's no room for back numbers in his baggage. The clouds stitch back the widening tear but he gropes for a towel, feeling the cabin temperature rise as though, miles below, the city of his birth were burning.
