day 11—hope delivered

The cold started to seep in, winding through the van's cracks and seams, settling in like an unwelcome visitor. Outside, the harsh wind howled, rustling the trees and bringing the distant hum of industrial machines, a constant reminder that, despite the illusion, we were still deep in the city.

Soon, Alex arrived, ready to complete the repairs on the van. We asked if we could stay in the van while he worked, and he graciously agreed.

In the passenger seat, I nestled into the little warmth I could find with the sliding door ajar, the pages of The Nightingale feeling like a lifeline against the cold, the words stark and raw, mirroring the sharpness of the morning outside.

While I read, the air felt increasingly colder. The nearby sounds—a helicopter's hum, the rumble of a nearby truck—receded, overshadowed by the compelling draw of the dark, haunting reality of World War II.

In that instant, I sensed an uncommon bond with the characters; their fight for survival felt genuine. The intense winds outside, the roaring helicopter, and the isolation of our urban campground all seemed far removed from the terrors of war, yet there was a connection.

History doesn’t always feel like history when you’re living it. Sometimes, you find yourself in the thick of something—struggling, waiting, fighting—and the world around you carries on as if nothing’s changed. Time seems to be pushing forward relentlessly, even when it feels like the past is still alive in every breath you take.

The clattering of tools softened behind us.

“Well, you’ve got a working battery and stove on your hands. I’ll just clean up and be on my way,” Alex said as Trent and I both let out a sigh of relief.

We nearly forgot it was a $2,000 setback. But as they say, the devil is in the details—or something like that. We now had a working van.