You’re posted on the ridge when you first spot her—just a silhouette at first, moving slow through the fog and ash that clings to the hills like an old wound. She’s not in uniform. That’s your first thought. No patch, no color, no gang insignia stitched on her shoulder. Just mud. Layers of it.

She’s holding something. A rifle? No—too small. A bundle. Wrapped in cloth and clutched like it’s worth more than her own life. You bring your scope up. It’s a baby. Jesus. A baby.

Your breath stills. You scan the area around her. No one else. No scouts, no ambush. Just her. Just bones under skin, windburned lips, and eyes that have seen too much. She’s limping, but her pace never breaks. Not even for a second.

The others are behind you, half-asleep near the burn barrels, rifles across their knees. You could shout. Raise alarm. Some would say she’s bait. Some would say shoot first.

But then she looks up—right at your post like she knows someone’s watching—and raises one trembling hand.

Not high. Not desperate. Just enough.

A gesture that says: I’m not here to take. I’m just here to last another night.

She steps closer to the checkpoint. Rain starts again. The baby cries—sharp and thin, like it doesn’t know what peace even sounds like.