Rain hammered for days, turning my shelter into a murky pond. “No entry,” the sign reads—more warning than rule. Knees deep in mud, I wrestle the hand pump, muscles burning as brown water gurgles out. Each stroke feels futile, but stopping means surrender. Nearby, a small fire crackles defiantly under a lean-to. My dented pot simmers with scavenged roots and precious dried beans—the day’s only warmth. Smoke stings my eyes, but the smell is hope. The dugout’s lost for now, but I’m not. Keep pumping. Keep cooking. Keep breathing. Tomorrow, maybe, the sun will return. Tonight, the fire is enough.
