I joined the back of the huge queue. Being British, if there was one thing I knew how to do, it was queue. For a few minutes I could think of little else of being back home in my bed again. My migraine was getting worse, my eyes heavier, and everything around me seemed to be that much more irritable. Two lines deep into the queue it was easier to lose myself in the rhythm of it all; the queue also provided protection from the brisk late morning chill. Moving along the queue it occurred to me, like a flash of some strange inspiration, that this really was my last chance to make an escape. Somehow my mind had put two and two together to make four, but I couldn't figure out exactly why I felt the weight of what I was about to do so heavily on my mind.

The end of the queue meant having my picture taken in one of several booths which were behind several of the fold out desks that had been arranged under the pavilion. High visibility wearing officials, most middle-aged women or retirement aged men were the ones handling this process, showing the teenagers were to stand and go to have their pictures taken whilst their identification was checked again; which made me think they were volunteers and not quite the official-official Pied Piper's Return officers like the ones that had evacuated me from my home.

Something told me that getting my picture taken, being officially a part of the Pied Piper's Return evacuation meant there was no going back. I felt myself snigger and shake my head. Why was I thinking this? What did it matter? I thought of my friend and our last conversation at the bench.

Had he been right to dodge the evacuation, to go to the absurd length of running away from home; something so uncharacteristic of him?

If I were wrong and he were right then this would be my last chance to really get away. Because the coaches would take us to who knows where, and the government would have me on an official record, with a recent picture of my face. Sure, maybe I was overthinking it; actually, I was definitely overthinking it in my sleep-deprived state, but what was there even to be afraid of?

Blowing up obviously. That's what everyone was being evacuated for in the first place. It made me shudder to think that any of the teenagers surrounding me, possibly even me as well could blow up within moments. My body twitched from the sudden onset of panic. What was I thinking? Why had I allowed myself to do something so stupid? I had allowed myself to become a potential walking bomb among other walking bombs and we were all packed tightly; their shoulders brushing against mine; their heat mingling with my heat.

I needed to run. I need to get out of this deathtrap queue and find a way home! Or if not home at least somewhere where I wouldn't be a danger to others! I felt a sudden weight on my shoulder. I jerked and almost cried out in fright.

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"Do you smoke?" said the person standing behind me.

I looked up at them, they were pretty tall. Their right hand had touched my shoulder but had already pulled away. They were head and shoulders taller than me, maybe even a bit more. My chest was rising and falling and sweat had broken out across my forehead; and I could feel sweat beneath my armpits under the coat and long-sleeved shirt I was wearing.

The person had looked at me with suspicion, but it eased into one of concern. I honestly couldn't tell if I was looking at a girl or boy. They had a buzz cut, blue eyes, and a very androgynous face that was more feminine than it was masculine; with no facial hair as an easy give away to the sex of the person I was looking at. Their coat provided only a slight hint; it was big, and puffy, and black; something I would expect a girl to be comfortable wearing but not a guy.

"Sorry?" I said, my brain feeling emptied out of thoughts. I was terrible at social interaction when fully awake, so being so tired and out of sorts and panicked about everyone around me blowing up like a minefield wasn't helping matters.

"Do you have a lighter?" said the person. They held up a closed fist and an unlit cigarette peeking out from one of the fingers.

"Oh, I–eh-no, I don't smoke," I said.

The person smiled. There was a lot of charisma in the smile too, like someone who knew they could be charming just by a simple expression. That sort of person could be dangerous, especially if they looked a bit rough, like this person did. They looked and sounded like someone who had spent a lot of time in a council block, around bad people. The kind of person it wouldn't be smart to get on the wrong side of.

"Smoking's bad for you," they said, putting the unlit cigarette into their mouth. I wasn't sure if they were trying to come across as a little bit too cool for school or if it was effortless.

I turned back around; I didn't know what to say to this person and the mystery of whether I was even talking to a boy or girl was just the cherry on top of the cake in terms of my brain feeling fried and useless.

I thought of little else except the encounter with this person and how rude I must be coming across by not continuing a conversation with them. Before I hadn't noticed they were there beyond a vague, tall, black shape in my periphery. After their brief question it was hard to be aware of anything else. At last my turn to have my identification checked and my photo taken came. A gray-haired old man took my documents and handed them off to his colleague sat at the table, and then ushered me forward towards the makeshift photo booth.

"Stand still, look into the camera, no smiling," said the old man. I did as I was asked. I heard a clunking noise, or thought I heard one, then was ushered out of the booth. Away from the queue I felt like a child lost in a supermarket. Where did I need to go next?

"Go to Zone A and wait for your name to be called," said another official, who I hadn't noticed until they spoke. It was another middle-aged lady in a high-visibility jacket. She spoke in a tone that left little room for debate, not because she was being curt with me, but that she must have been having a very long day and wanted to keep this whole train moving, as was her job. Feeling a twinge of sympathy for the work this lady was having to do as part of the evacuation, I gave an enthusiastic nod and headed towards Zone A.