I stopped walking, turning to face her.Her eyes were hollow, the spark of survival flickering dangerously low.“The point,” I said slowly, “is that you’re still breathing. If you give up now, all of this will have been for nothing. Your father—”Her face twisted, the hollow look replaced by something sharper.Anger.Grief.“Don’t talk about my father,” she snapped.I stared at her for a long moment, then nodded.“Fine. But you keep walking.”23NOURAWe passed others on the road.Refugees, like us.Or maybe not like us.Some looked at me with hollow eyes, their faces gaunt and sunken.Others had an air of desperation, their movements erratic, their eyes darting to Khalid with something between fear and hostility.A man approached us, his hands outstretched.“Please,” he begged, his voice raspy. “Food. Water. Anything.”I froze, my heart pounding.He looked harmless, but there was something wild in his eyes, something dangerous.“Keep moving,” Khalid said, stepping between us and the
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