Chapter Forty-one

The two hours that followed the tense meeting in our makeshift shelter were a masterclass in the kind of desperate, hopeful logistics that had come to define our new existence. The plan was simple in objective—bring the survivors from the apartments to the relative safety of our fortified shelters—but complex in its execution, a delicate dance of risk and trust. The air, thick with the scent of damp concrete and collective anxiety, seemed to vibrate with a new, cautious energy.

I watched the group dynamic shift and reform. Moe, a man whose quiet demeanor I had previously mistaken for indifference, became the unexpected cornerstone of the operation. He didn’t just offer; he insisted, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the nervous chatter.

“I have a van,” he stated, his hands, calloused and capable, resting on the map we’d spread over a salvaged door that served as our table. “It’s old, but it runs. We can fit eight, maybe nine people per trip if we squeeze. It’s better tha