Lina
I was beginning to think the border crisis had secretly declared war on sleep. That was the only explanation. Every morning, another problem appeared. Another family was displaced. Another shelter over capacity. Another supply request. Another emergency meeting.
And somehow, despite all that, I still found myself volunteering for extra shifts. Either I was dedicated or profoundly stupid. The jury remained out. I stepped into the temporary housing center balancing a clipboard, two cups of coffee, and what little patience I had left.
The old community center had been converted into an emergency shelter weeks ago. Since then, it had become a maze of folding cots, temporary dividers, supply stations, and exhausted volunteers. Children ran through the hallways. Parents carried boxes.
