Dominic had taken charge of our ancestors urns. Their colourful exteriors belying their contents. With the history of our race contained within they are the key to our future. The authorities do not wish us to have a future, for our religion is feared.
The only route left open to us, a rusting suspension bridge. With Dominic leading the way I crossed in horror, for I had seen the ants chewing through the rotten supportive rope ties. Leaving our burnt out village behind, I could only trust that what waited ahead, surely must be better than the raging river below.