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, prepared to finish the van's repairs. We chatted about his weekend—he had been renovating his mom's guest bathroom—and asked if we could stay in the van while he worked. He 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. Each page felt significant, its gravity filling the room. The outside sounds—the helicopter's hum, the sporadic rumble of a nearby truck—receded, overshadowed by the compelling draw of the book's story. The world around me seemed to blur, suspended between the flickering lights of a contemporary KOA and the dark, haunting reality of World War II that captivated me.

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.

A reminder that 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, as if time’s 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 exchanged relieved glances.

We were so relieved that 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.