On the edge of the market. A dilapidated hut, a roof, men sitting underneath, the dog is snarling at strangers. It is a poor country, but some money for the game can be found.
Grim faces on the losers, a triumphant smile on the winner. The fumes of the decaying goods of the market sting the nose, the sun burns on the dusty alley. The game begins
…
