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next year. I need to work at it.”
    Ben didn’t have to work at it too hard, from what Danny could tell. He had a long stride, and his lean frame moved easily along the track, his arms swinging slightly, like he was being carried by the soft spring breeze. He ran as if in slow motion, so effortlessly, but when coming around the far turn, Danny could see that Ben was moving much faster than he’d originally thought. He ran around the track four times, then jogged steadily around half of the track to cool down. By this time Long Shot had finished her run and was lying in the grass, snuffling after a bug.
    “Where did you learn to run like that?” Danny asked, as Ben took a long drink from a bottle of Gatorade.
    “In Darfur, we used to run everywhere. From one end of the village to the other. From village to village. We were little kids who loved to run. Then…” and his voice dropped.
    “Then what?”
    “Then…” Ben’s voice trailed off again, his eyes taking on a haunted look. It was clearly not a subject he was comfortable with. “Then the janjaweed came.”
    Danny was about to say, “What’s that?” but Ben had obviously sensed the question coming.
    “The janjaweed are the riders on horseback with guns and gasoline. They came to our village. I ran into the bushes. I ran for what seemed like all night.”
    As Ben told his story, Danny wondered at how he’d survived. The raiding party killed his father and mother, his sisters and brothers, and those who weren’t killed, disappeared. He ran into the scrubby bushes that surrounded the village, running from the burning huts and screaming people and the crackling sound of gunfire. He ran into the night. Exhausted, he fell asleep on the brown earth several miles from the village. The next morning he awoke to find a member of the janjaweed standing over him, speaking in Arabic, a language he did not understand. He was taken to a compound, forced to work for his food, separated from his family. He was only ten years old. A year later he escaped, following a trail to an open road, where he was picked up by United Nations aid workers, then taken to a refugee camp. Two years later, he was lucky enough to be relocated to Canada. He found a home with the Logan family, learned English, and began attending school.
    “That’s a wild story,” said Danny. “It must have been very tough. Saying goodbye to your country, to your village …”
    “Very tough. But one of my teachers, Mr. Ogbuwe, says we have to realize that our strength is something that is always in us. It never really leaves. We have to listen for it, to know when to find it, when we are faced with danger or trouble.”
    Danny’s attention was diverted by the dog. Long Shot yawned, wagged her tail slightly, then lifted herself up off the ground, stretching.
    “Time to go home,” said Danny.
    “It’s good to have a home ,” said Ben, and his voice was full of emotion. “Good to have family. It’s good to be home .”
    THE TEXAN
    A big Texan named Dave Langley was mulling over the email he’d just read at his training facility outside of Arlen. The evening sky over Texas was stained a multi-coloured hue, from ocean blue to a rich purple and streaks of orange cloud stretched away to the horizon and the scrub brush around his compound. The small dog track was splashed with spots of dying yellow sunshine.
    “Ah, evening,” Dave said to himself. He was sitting on the porch of his home, which his grandfather had built. “Built to last,” Grandpa Langley had said, and it did. Constructed as it was of quarried stone and large logs from a forest far beyond the city limits, and put together by the senior Langley, who had made his money in cattle ranching and oil, and his team of superb carpenters and craftsmen, the house had stood for almost a hundred years. Inside, massive timbers formed struts across the ceiling, and a stone fireplace was the centrepiece of the place. It was big: as big as Dave, as