Everything is too close to everything
Today I carry on towards the frontline. Trains will take me no further, so I walk to the highway and hitch a ride from a medic. His car is painted with hand-brushed camouflage, unit patches span its headliner, his hands tremble, and he traces his scalp again and again with his fingers. Exiting the city, six soldiers with dated assault rifles stop us at a barricaded military checkpoint. He exchanges a few words with them before we pass.
We drive between fields of barbed wire, past charred remains of gas stations, and under kilometers of drone nets. When he stops his car, as far north as he'll take me, he grips my shoulder with white knuckles and stiffly bows. I hand him a cigarette and go on my way.
On a cobbled street, an air raid siren wails, and I sing along. Woaaaa. Woaaaa. A soldier trekking by laughs and joins me, groaning through a cigarette clenched between his teeth. Woaaaa. Woaaaa.
I continue north for hours, my suitcase bouncing against uneven ground. Within range of FPVs now. I pass between crumbling houses fortified with netting and bags of sand. Outside one of the few homes still occupied, a small child tosses a stone into the air and catches it. Two German Shepherds trail me, growling at my legs. Down a muddy path alongside train tracks. The puttering of a Shahed down and across the sky leads into a distant Ka-Thunk. Dogs bark. Everything is too close to everything, I think.