The walk down from my last shift in the camp – kids’ reading circle – was without dramatic fan fair. The multilingual drone of human activity faded to the hum of cicadas. Soon, the smell of pine and dry earth won out over decaying food, sweaty bodies, spices, firewood, and human excrement. I said my goodbyes in the crowded and hot reception of Alpha; the click of plastic on wood from in-progress checkers matches populated the background. At the station, I could see the barbed wire unsuccessfully containing the humanitarian crisis unfolding on this small island. The web of tents and tarps and wire grew more distant as I headed towards the ferry and my bus turned up the sloping hills of Samos; the entire scene soon eclipsed behind hills dotted with terracotta shingles, once painted shutters, and faded green olive groves.
