Then around the corner ran the bald one, the British journalist-was his name Sam?—whose rage reddened his shaven head. Sam was howling. They were late, the plane was already at the airstrip a few kilometers away. Unconcerned, Abdi had seen it land, churning a hurricane of dust, as he quietly sipped his tea. For the two journalists, it was to be their escape; now they were going to miss it.