Mary walked stealthily, her legs throbbing with pain. Yet, this was the right time. She had to reach for the doctor before dawn.  Her children were sleeping in the underground bunker, her youngest still very sick. They had taken to underground bunkers from the time when civil unrest plunged their country into chaos. Her husband was with the opposing ideologists. She heard that he had married someone else now and was living a life of opulence. But, she refused to deviate from her support of the overthrown government.

Mary clutched her heart as a bullet flew, narrowly missing her. It was probably her husband or one of the rebels, she thought wretchedly. She looked at the sky, fearfully. The dawn was breaking through. She hurried to the doctor’s bunker, limping.

This was written for Alastair’s Photo Fiction.