The absurdity of the kind act being to watch, without helping.

He watches while I climb precariously over a barbed wire topped fence. I’ve already dropped my bag over — the only certain method for getting over a tough fence. It’s a slow process, taking care not to get tangled up in the barbs. One of my shoe laces gets hooked, still on the wrong side of the fence. I reach back over with my right hand and work to wrestle it free, my left forearm burns and the fence vibrates under the strain. I free my foot, but tear a new hole in my trousers. All the while he just watches, and I’m grateful to him. Because to act as written would be to arrest me. For trespassing, for interfering with privately owned infrastructure, for walking along a road. Landing heavily next to my bag, I want to sit and rest but he has to see that I’m heading away, so I heave the pack onto ever-so-slightly dejected shoulders and keep wandering.

When he stepped out of the van he asked me, almost comically, “where is your car?”.