Majira is fifteen this year, his birthday is next month, but he reckons he won't live to see adulthood.
"...The gangs on Rust Street are done for. Next, it might be our turn. Should we flee again? But leaving this area is even more dangerous—there's fighting everywhere…"
Ordinary people during wartime are like rabbits in a forest ablaze.
With flames raging in every direction, fleeing often means death, and staying put means death too.
Majira simply has no choice.
The food supply, or the expired cans he painstakingly scavenged earlier, is almost depleted.
The collapse of the entire country goes far beyond the destruction of administrative systems. Without systemic agricultural and industrial production—and with war everywhere—everyone's food relies solely on reserves from the bygone era. But after so many years of war, no household has any surplus left.
"We have to leave. Old Ruan next door has been looking at my sister in a way that's… off."
