The paint in my room is peeling, flaking and drooping to form incomprehensible maps along the wall. All I have here is a bare mattress and the dress they gave me of some abrasive fabric that gnaws at my skin. And the television, I suppose. We all get one, old models that work well enough for us to see what we need to. A bit of light infiltrates from the window above. Not much, but just enough to remind me of the sun’s feeling. It plays tricks with me sometimes, teasing at the impossibility of going outdoors.

The television clears for a moment.

“Bombs fall in Kiev”

I press my hands flat against the screen, straining for a glimpse of home. But then there was static on the screen and a spray of shrapnel against the window. That was all.