There was a low mist. You could see the glare of the headlamps reflected on the high-voltage cables beside the road.
It hadn’t rained, but the ground was still wet with dew; the traffic lights cast blurred red spots on the asphalt. You could sense the breath of the camp from miles away. Roads, railway tracks and cables all gradually converged on it. This was a world of straight lines: a grid of rectangles and parallelograms imposed on the autumn sky, on the mist and on the earth itself.