Red Fox Read Online Free Page A

problems.
    “You’d best go to bed, Freya,” my mother says suddenly.
    “What are you thinking?” I ask them both. “Tell me.”
    “There is nothing we can do. We don’t even know if anything bad will happen.”
    I purse my lips doubtfully but nod. I don’t believe them. We all know something bad will be happening tomorrow. These days nothing good ever happens.

3.
     
    By the time we arrive at the town centre the next morning at quarter to nine, the place is swarming with people. The town centre is a large square area of paved land walled by a ten-foot high red brick wall.
    This place holds good memories for me. When I was young, Jack and I used to play hide-and-seek in the flowering hedge growing along the inside of the brick wall while our parents watched musical concerts or public theatre productions. Clara and I have often scaled the very wall holding us in and walked along the top of it as part of a stupid school dares. Those same walls now feel cold, dangerous, and confining. I suspect the government chose it because there is only one entrance and exit. After today, I know the town square will hold some bad memories for me.
    There are only two guards at the entranceway, both armed with guns, which are supposed to be prohibited. Even with the weapons, it surprises me there are so few guards to contain such a big mass of people. Inside, there are people I recognise and others that I don’t remember ever seeing. There are families and individuals, young and old, healthy and sickly.
    The noise is overwhelming. People are yelling to each other, asking what is going on, demanding the two guards explain the situation. I glance at the top of the brick walls and weigh my chances of climbing it safely if things go wrong. I could probably do it, but I doubt the rest of my family could. The cobblestone ground is wet with puddles from the recent storm and the amount of people walking through the water has made it murky.
    I am wary as we walk further into the square and find ourselves right in the centre of the crowd. The noise of chattering people is almost deafening but the talking is not care-free and fun like normal. People’s faces show fear and panic. Some are sweating profusely even though it is a cold day, and the heat drifting off bodies is making the square hot and steamy. It’s also making it stink like sweat and bad breath. Children clutch their mother’s hands and cry as they are pushed back and forth by the mass of people. A few people trip over each other and they vanish under the feet of dozens of others. I don’t know whether they get up or not. I’m sure that if people knew they were there, they would help them up, but that is how thick the crowd is. I’m pressed against Jack and my father but several other strangers have their elbows jabbed in my ribs or their face too close for comfort. I feel claustrophobic and insignificant among so many people.
    The weight of the hundreds of people is oppressive. Though I see no real sign of danger, I feel a rising sense of dread and foreboding. My eyes dart here and there, my hands are bawled into fists and I’m breathing in ragged, fearful gasps. Jack slips his arm through mine and holds firm as not to lose me in the crowd.
    I feel like a cow standing in an overly cramped, filthy cattle truck. Who knows, perhaps we are destined for the abattoir as well. Perhaps the new government has decided that the country’s population needs to be lowered for nature to continue recovering. The thought sends a ripple of panic through my body, but I push it away. Before my imagination runs totally wild, the shrill blast of a whistle rings out above the noise and people around me fall silent as they search for the whistle’s source. I stand on my tip-toes, looking over people’s shoulders.
    At the front of the town centre, a man stands on the raised cement platform that was once designated for performers. He is a burly man with a close-shaven head and thick, grey eyebrows