A sliver of moonlight found its way into the kitchen, creeping between the slats of wood. Alen had reinforced the broken window with whatever he could find, patching together a piecemeal attempt to protect his meager space. At eye level, a solitary circle of light peered through.

The reminder of a stray bullet.

His heavy sigh entered the room before he did, welcoming him into the space. A creature of habit, Alen glanced toward the window despite there being nothing to see. At times he would peer outside through the bullet hole. Once in a while, the same nagging, intrusive thought would pop into his head:

What if another bullet follows this same path while I’m standing here?

He could never tell what he would see when he looked outside. Sometimes it would seem tranquil enough: apartment buildings and cars; occasionally he’d see a person or two.

A longer glance revealed more reality than first met the eye: most of the apartment buildings looked much like his, pocked with bullet holes. Some were worse for wear, sporting a slab of scrap metal to cover the remnants of a mortar attack.

Nearly nothing was available, so people restricted their use of practically everything. There were less than a handful of trees on the street anymore; people needed them for fuel. Most cars were almost skeletons, stripped of wheels, engines, anything that could be repurposed.

Alen pulled on a threadbare jacket, glancing out the peephole before leaving his apartment. He wasn’t what you’d call a religious man, but he nonetheless muttered a silent prayer to whoever might still be listening to this particular corner of hell in hopes that his home would still be standing and not occupied by gangsters by the time he returned—if he returned.

Walking down the hall, he did his usual checks on his neighbors. The old man three doors down on the left was taking care of his wife, a kind woman who had been left mostly immobile after a stroke. Though a gruff old geezer, her husband did his absolute best to keep her healthy, even lugging up twice as much water to bathe her frequently.

It was a tough job to do with even just meager rations. Occasionally the first-floor folks had water in their pipes, and there was a tap in the basement that had a similar probability. More often than not, people in the neighborhood were forced to carry their various water jugs to the closest cistern or well. There was a shorter route, but it had little cover, and one never knew if the day they opted for a shortcut would be the day they would land themselves in the sights of a gun.

When Alen returned, the same old neighbor shared a story that left Alen sleepless for nights. The man had been hauling heavy water jugs in each hand and decided to take his chances on the shortcut. He never knew if the two men on the road decided to do the same because he did, or if they simply chose to of their own volition. Being younger, they easily surpassed him as they made their way up the street. They had just begun to veer off to a side street to presumably make their way home when the tell-tale sound of a shell rang out . . .

Lying awake that night, Alen wondered what he would have done in that situation. Would he have gone to see if the two men were somehow alive, despite being blown to pieces? Or would he have done like his neighbor and put his head down and kept walking, one foot in front of the other?

Was a hardened heart really a choice in times of war, or was it simply a matter of survival?

Weeks later, the old man got his attention one morning. Alen, you’re a smart young man.

Alen smirked, unsure which adjective amused him more. He wasn’t sure about smart; he’d been struggling in his graduate engineering classes before the war began, and had felt close to giving up. He would give anything to return to those days where the biggest struggle was finding enough time to study for a test.

Young didn’t seem to really apply to him anymore, either. He had recently turned 33, but since the siege began, his hair had more gray in it than ever before. The dark circles under his eyes became more pronounced—it was hard to get much in the way of sleep on a mostly empty stomach with the lullaby of mortar shells landing somewhere in the city.

No, he felt older than he was, and likely looked the same.

That day, the old man’s back injury was playing up, making it hard to collect water. Couldn’t Alen come up with an idea?

For the next week, he warily foraged for supplies in nearby buildings. There was an abandoned medical center that always seemed to furnish metal and other miscellanea, despite the countless times people scavenged its few floors. He would occasionally explore a home or apartment building, exercising extreme caution. Snipers were always a possibility.

After amassing a good-sized pile of junk, Alen sat down to work, trying to think like an engineer again. The result of his labor was a makeshift wagon—a plastic bin rigged with suitcase wheels and a wire, making it possible for the old man to pull his water jugs along.

This invention turned Alen into somewhat of a sixth-floor celebrity, the fixer that everyone turned to when they needed something. Other neighbors would occasionally reach out with requests and problems:

Alen, do you know where to find a few glass bottles?

Alen, would you be able to make a toy for my child’s birthday?

Alen, my coffee pot is broken. Do you have any ideas?

In hindsight, Alen wished he’d been able to stay in the realm of repairing objects. Objects were easier to deal with than people.

One particular day, the old man explained the situation. His neighbor across the hall had two children, a son and daughter. It was increasingly difficult for her to make ends meet, and she was getting desperate. Could Alen find them a way out of the neighborhood?  

The simplest way out was also the most complicated:

The bridge.

Alen had never given a single thought to crossing a bridge before the war. The city had so many; it was tucked into a valley with a river—of course there were bridges. Once the siege began, the closest bridge in their neighborhood truly became a lifeline.

Unfortunately, it was also on the frontline. Few dared to even go near the bridge, and fewer still dared cross it. On days when the shelling was most intense, one barely even felt like they could leave the building, say nothing of outside.

Though the beginning of the siege felt like ages ago, Alen vividly recalled the reports of their infamous bridge on that fateful first day. Paramilitants had once more set up a blockade of the bridge, and yet again, thousands of people of all backgrounds came to protest.

Except this time, the paramilitants took action. Calls for peace were silenced with guns.

The crowd quickly dispersed, but the whispers had reached Alen’s building up the hill in no time. Two women had been killed on the bridge. A neighbor downstairs had known one of them, and she had been inconsolable, crying for hours.

The next day the siege began in earnest, and mortars dropped like heavy tears that threatened to drown them all in anguish.

“Yes,” Alen said, almost in a trance. “I can find a way.”

* * *

He insisted on going at night. Though snipers and shells alike were problems day or night, he didn’t want to make them easier targets.

The woman had paid Alen in advance, the usual hodge-podge of wartime currencies:

Food: mixed vegetables and herbs she’d foraged in the park

Weaponry: a knife belonging to her late husband

Valuables: a gold necklace that she’d had since childhood

She and her children each had a backpack, the woman also taking a small suitcase. Alen stressed the importance of being able to move quickly, encouraging them to pack accordingly.

Alen led the way downstairs, exiting the side entrance facing downhill. He hoped that the idiots playing military uphill on the frontlines were too busy drinking or whatever it was they did; hopefully they wouldn’t notice them at all. They crept through the overgrown grass along the side of the road, ducking behind abandoned cars where they could.

Once Alen paused after seeing movement up ahead, halting the group in their tracks. He couldn’t tell who the person was or if they had a weapon, but they quickly seemed to be on their own way. The group waited long enough that Alen’s leg almost fell asleep. He had to be sure.

While they lingered, clouds crept across the face of the moon, dispersed, only to be replaced again by others. The group was still for a few moments more, then continued moving.

Nearing the bridge, anxiety began crawling up Alen’s back. He knew the familiar feeling of it lurking on his shoulders, its weight cloaking his thoughts. That night it felt like a vise closing around his neck.

He glanced up and down the darkened streets before nodding at the woman. She grabbed her daughter’s hand and the suitcase, her son grabbing his sister’s hand.

Like birds startled from the bush, they fled, taking Alen’s heart with them. He thought he’d given up on hope. But that night . . . hope was a bird taking flight on a bridge over a river.

In the months and years to come, Alen would replay each scene in his mind like a movie.

The mother, almost bounding across the bridge like a deer.

The children clutching each other’s hands, arms almost flailing to remain upright, propelling them forward as though swimming.

In hauntingly slow motion, the moon crept out from behind the clouds. Alen glanced up—the luminous orb reminded him of the bullet-shaped light in his kitchen.

In a strange turn of events, he didn’t even react when he heard the gunshot. Had he actually heard anything, or did he imagine it?

Before they’d even left the building that night, Alen had tried not to eavesdrop, but they were close enough that he couldn’t help but notice what the woman had told her children:

If anything happens to me, I want you both to keep running.

If anything happens, don’t scream.

Another shot rang out.

Alen clenched his eyes shut. The vise tightened around his neck, and tears fought their way out of his eyes as he heard a wail.

Another shot, then a fourth.

Silence.

* * *

Though it was only moments, it felt like lifetimes before Alen forced his eyes open. He forced himself to look, tears blurring his vision. The moonlight fell across the bridge, light and blood alike spilling across the road.

Quiet cloaked the sky. Alen had a fleeting thought—What if . . .?

A random shot rang out and a dog barked as if in reply. Alen paused, knowing he needed to move. He compelled himself to be vigilant of his surroundings. If he wanted to make it home safely, he needed to focus. One foot in front of the other.

He didn’t remember climbing the stairs or making his way down the hall. It barely registered that he entered his apartment. He leaned heavily against the doorjamb, breathing shakily.

Moonlight streamed through the bullet hole.

The next day, Alen saw the old man in the hallway. Overcome by grief, Alen simply shook his head, unable to form any words.

The old man remained expressionless, though the pain in his eyes betrayed his emotion. He reached over to squeeze Alen’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity.

“Come in, my boy,” the old man said, opening the door and waving him in. “I’ve got something here that I’m sure you can fix.”