The sun beat down on me the moment I ducked out of the tricycle's sidecar. Giving the downtrodden driver a few bills for my fare, I scrambled for my cap and slotted it on my head. The shade afforded to me by the worn, rigid brim did nothing to abate the waves of summer heat rippling on my skin. I dug for the plastic bottle I nabbed from the site and tilted my head back to swallow the last quarter.

As my peeling sneakers trudged across the untilled soil, I tapped the empty bottle against the palm of my hand. The thick bmp-bmp-bmp ringing in the air made for a distracting companion with every step. What was I supposed to do with this? It was not like the camp had any spare dispensers growing from the soil. I looked around, past the line of overgrown landscaped parks, the crowd flitting in and out of my periphery, and the sweep of low-lying buildings and residential houses. No trash cans either.

After seeing the state of the first city fresh from the border of the capital, nobody had the ounce of care left for cleanliness or discipline. Now, plastic bags flew with the wind, cardboard cups rolled around in circles and crumpled under the weight of passing freight trucks, and food and biowastes streaked every curb. The rules they introduced when Bacoor became modernized evaporated like water left out in the sun. It was supposed to be Imus' turn next, but the war happened, so with the camp stuck between two cities, it was like walking through a live before-and-after comparison diagram.

I never admitted this to anyone, but ever since the invaders open fired on our marine corps, I had this sneaking feeling as if we were simply in a cruel simulation without knowing it, that the war was merely a bubble experiment conducted at the whim of some Global North country to test their new attack tactics or latest AI-guided weaponry. Or maybe the countless conspiracy videos I watched on YouTube had now bled into my unguarded thoughts.

It has been a full three months since we were driven out of Longos. After scrounging the last of our savings for a downpayment for a house in Molino, one of the last towns in Bacoor, it was a battle to get my family to move eight kilometers. If I was not a journalist, I would not have used my data-gathering skills to convince them a hospital was nearby and the military camp had already started moving to a mere four kilometers from the town. We would not worry about traffic either, since most of the people with cars had flown off the country or fled to their relatives in various provinces. I remembered having done coverage on the airlines' soaring ticket prices as flights became all the rage the first six months of the invasion. Now, we were all who remained.

When I arrived at the camp, I flashed my PRESS badge at the checkpoint guards, and they pushed the neon black-and-yellow barriers to let me through. Armored cars poured from the Palace when their main bases in NCR failed after a coordinated attack which brought down the Parañaque base and allowed penetration through the Bacoor Boulevard. It had been three long months, but the military had regrouped in Palico. They did their best in defending the capital, but there were times when it was wiser to back down and deal with the problem from a different point of view. Then again, I doubt we could still do something about the foreign powers tainting our soil. When bravery outweighed wisdom, creativity, and intelligence, could we survive and win this for our people?

The recent air strike should prove my point. I was sent to Dasmariñas to cover the relief operations when bombs dropped from the sky, landing all over Las Piñas and some towns like Habay, Aniban, and Panapaan. It was a miracle the fledgling camp budding in Palico was not hit. Ma'am Mich had been right. Someone might be leaking state plans and secrets to the enemy, or the enemy has such good spies and reconnaissance skills.

And because of that air strike, the government closed all roads leading in and out of Bacoor and Imus, making logistics nearly impossible. By some ill advice from someone in the war council, even the medical processes and supplies suffered a blow. With piling injured civilians and soldiers as well as those with constant medical needs, it was a challenge for everyone involved. The staff took the brunt of it, and a prime example now lay before me as I arrived at a specific tent.

Without even waving the heat off my skin, I removed my cap, wiped the sweat dotting my forehead, and trudged towards a single figure slumped over the table. Dark hair covered almost half of his face, making his cracked glasses disappear underneath the thick strands. Out of camo, he was back into his slate blue scrubs from his resident days. His

Now, after a full year of serving in the army as an on-call doctor, he might have fast-forwarded his residency. He might be a full-fledged physician if this war finished. That was also part of the reason why Mom did not make further comments when I told her we were a thing. Lola had not stopped talking about him every time her doctor's appointment came up in conversations. Despite telling her that he was still working on his specialization, and she did not have any illnesses connected to what he wanted to pursue, some days, I felt as though she did not truly get why he could not handle her check-ups and treatments.

I pulled a nearby chair next to him and was about to sit when I noticed the half-eaten pack of flavored bread resting in his loose grip. He had fallen asleep on the only meal he would probably have for the whole day. With fewer medical staff around in each satellite camp and increasing workload every time the invaders pronounced their judgment, this was bound to happen. Transfers were a headache to deal with, considering the military limited movement of any kind in between camps. We could not afford to be compromised more than we were, and those who did not have anything to do with their mistakes paid the price. How was that fair?

With a silent sigh, I removed the pack from his hand. He needed to sleep in an actual bed for his back's sake, but even if it was a table in the middle of nowhere, he did not have to do it while holding his meager lunch. My fingers crunched the plastic. I froze, eyes wide as he groaned and stirred. His lids fluttered open, sleep zipping off his features in a span of seconds. He did not yawn or scratch his eyes or do anything people did when they were newly-awoken. His gaze landed on me.

I waved at him, forgetting how I still held the flavored bread. The smell of ube and cheese wafted to my nose. "Didn't mean to wake you. Sorry," I said. "I was just putting this away before the flies came."

Kian blinked. Maybe it was his way of chasing the haze off his mind. "You never told me you wanted that too," he replied. "I could have fetched two from the rations this morning."

"This is all they gave you?" My eyebrows rose so much my forehead crinkled. "You never told me things were this bad."

He rubbed the back of his neck before pushing his hair off his forehead. The locks stayed up, as if they were licked by a carabao. Like me, he did not have the luxury of washing his hair for days on end. "No, no. They have packed lunch made by one of the titas," he replied, giving me a dismissive wave. "I just...didn't feel like it."

I sank into the chair with enough force to make the legs grate against the compact soil. The clumps of green remaining on the surface crunched against my soles. "Didn't you promise you'd eat well?" I said, my fists balled. The urge to punch him on the arm as hard as I could without breaking his bones had never been this strong. The bread's ripped packet crunched against my hand when I held it up again. The poor lump of colored flour swayed with each motion without any choice. "What does this give you? You wouldn't even last an hour."

Kian snatched the pack from me at a speed I did not predict. He nibbled at the edge before I could stop him. "It's fine, Maian. I'll eat again in an hour," he said. "What brings you here?"

"To see if you're stuffing your face with dyed bread again," I retorted, rolling my eyes. In reality, I was here for something else. Maybe get advice on how I should tackle things. "You need to eat a lot in down times like this. You don't get a lot of breaks. I don't want you to keel over because of things you can control."

"No one's keeling over," Kian answered with a nonchalance I never understood. "I have until two to eat this thing, so I should be able to get one more."

I scoffed. Fine. If he collapses because of malnutrition, it would not be my fault. I did everything I could. Kian, as observant as ever, noticed the smallest shift in my disposition. He reached out and pinched my cheek. What the— "Okay, fine. I can't stand the great Maian Dizon being angry at me," he said, voice dripping with amusement. "I'll grab dinner later and breakfast tomorrow. I mean, as much as the remaining rations could afford me."

"Still the same issue?" I prodded.

"More like, worse," he replied, rubbing his face. The bags under his eyes had deepened over the month. A little more, and he looked as if I truly punched him with both knuckles. His shoulders fought to stay squared, and he appeared to be thinking of beds and hot showers when his gaze glazed past my face and into the horizon behind me. "Humanitarian aid, even though abundant, has been held off before they even reached the checkpoints. The enemy is really committed to squeezing the air out of us."

He jerked his chin at me. "You should get out of here before it bottlenecks completely."

I opened my mouth to answer, to spew the question connected to that statement, when my reedy ringtone ripped past us. Who the hell would call—

My mother's name blinked at me from the screen when I flipped the screen up. Without hesitation, I jammed my thumb on the accept button. "Mom? What's wrong?" I said, pressing the phone to my ear. Kian perked up, going into doctor mode. "Mom?"

"Lola...she..." came the garbled reply from the other side. "We tried to get to the ER, but they're closed, so we're out here—"

I shot up, the stool toppling backwards. "Where are you? I'll come to you." I said. "Mom? Calm down. Nothing's going to happen to Lola, okay?"

I glanced at Kian and gave him a brief nod. He followed me out of the tent, my mother babbling in my ears. Through her racking sobs, I was able to make out some information. Since the hospital turned them away, they made it to the edge of the camp for lack of a better option. When I mentioned it to Kian, I watched his lips press into a thin line, no doubt running the logistics in his head. Still, he joined me on my mad dash towards the camp's entrance. When we neared it, I already saw my mother arguing with the soldier behind the wheeled barrier. Lola stood beside her. Even from afar, I could see her heaving. These fools. Could they not see someone having trouble?

"There they are! I know them. I'm that girl's mother!" Mom's voice begged. "She needs help. Please—"

"Let them through," came Kian's command behind me. We—my mother, me, and the soldier—whirled to him. His gaze never left Lola. "She already has cyanosis. She's running out of air. It's a miracle she's still able to make the commute. And she's seventy-five! Move!"

As if tasered from behind, the soldiers snapped into action, opening the barriers enough for Mom and Lola to pass through. As soon as Lola made it, her knees buckled. If not for Kian's reflexes, she would have sprawled face-first to the ground. A curse ripped off his lips. The world lost sense as he pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and started saying gibberish. His voice remained placid, almost as if he was reading from a script. The soldiers pulled me and Mom away to give him some space to work. Only Lola's graying hair stuck past Kian's legs as he administered first-aid.

What would happen now? Would Lola be okay? What caused this relapse? She was fine two weeks ago since her latest on-call appointment. Or was that GP a scam? Anyone wanted to make a buck out of other people's misfortunes. But what choice did we have? Her appointment was nearing, and without fully operational hospitals in this new town, we did not have a choice. But now...

When the world made sense once more, Kian was handing me an unopened bottled water. I raised my gaze at him to find pristine, galvanized white walls around us. The bright, incandescent rod burned against my dry eyes. The cold of the metal hospital waiting chair registered in my mind. How long had I been sitting here?

"Asking how you're feeling seems like a futile quest," Kian said, sinking next to me. The long tail of his coat bundled behind us. "But Lola is fine. We removed the build-up of phlegm and started oxygen therapy. She should be up and moving soon."

I nodded. Living with a chainsmoker for most of her life made her life such a hell now. I always wondered if she ever regretted that huge decision from her youth, but she did not like talking about Lolo. Which made me ask myself—with this decision I was facing in my youth, would I regret this decision down the road too?

To leave those who remain to save myself—how selfish did I have to be to chase an impossible dream some dude with an overgrown mullet and a bad smoking habit promised me?

Another shadow fell over us, and we looked up to find Mom approaching us. Kian stood up even though I did not want him to and ducked his head at her. He gave me a reassuring smile. "I should go check on Lola and the other patients," he said. Mom nodded at him before watching his frame vanish into the forbidden room for us, common folk.

I whirled back to my mother. "Can we talk?"

My mother's weight slammed against the benches' frame. "What are you dying to talk to me about?" she asked. "Spit it out."

And I told her. About Raizen's offer, my poems, and the chance it could afford me once the deal pushed through. I studied her face change from confusion to shock to an arrangement I never saw on her face before. Was it...disbelief? Anger? Disgust? All three? Then, it came to the tipping point, the deciding factor.

"I need your permission or your agreement to pursue asylum in whatever country they stick me into during the publication grant," I said. "Maybe I can grant us safe access to proper treatments, especially to Lola."

"No," was Mom's only answer.

I blinked. And blinked again. This could not be happening. I gave them a way out. Why— "Mom, please—"

My mother sucked a breath through her teeth, silencing me. Her eyes blazed; her nostrils flared. "I will not be leaving this country, even if you drag me through the dirt," she said. "How dare you suggest that after trapping your father here? He wouldn't want to be apart from us, nor I, from him. How would we visit him, hmm? Did you think about that?"

It did not matter if we visited him or not. Call me callous—maybe I was as heartless as my mother implied—but he was dead. Nothing could ever change that. Visiting would not bring him to life, nor would staying in his damned country. Screw tradition. We needed to survive.

"Mom, just hear me out—"

She stood up and faced me, towering over me like a shadow I was not supposed to overcome. "Why would I listen to you? Are you going to get us killed too?" she said. "I'm done with you, Maian. Do what you want."

I slid off the benches to try and follow her. She pointed an accusatory finger at me, stopping me in my tracks. "Don't think of mentioning this again," she said. "I won't change my mind. And don't you try to get Lola on board. Think of her health for once, you ingrate."

I was not the one who made Lola ride a tricycle every time she had a doctor's appointment nor the one who made her walk all the way to camp when she could not breathe. How was this my fault?

Before I could learn to defend myself, my mother's shadow ebbed, leaving me in a deeper void spreading from my feet.