Delirium

Delirium


Arrival


The heat weighed down on the camp like a weight that had no intention of moving. It wasn’t just temperature; it was a constant pressure on the skin, a reminder that the body was in a place that did not forgive weakness. The dust hung low, almost cautiously, as if it had learned to avoid the eyes. One stepped and felt as if one were walking on layers of old days, old lives, old promises.


The vehicle stopped without ceremony. No welcome, no announcement. Just the sound of the engine dying and a void opening up ahead. Tents of white and beige fabric stretched as far as the eye could see, interrupted by makeshift structures, piles of plastic containers, lines of people who didn't move, just waited. Waiting here wasn't passive; it was an attitude of life.


He descended slowly, not out of hesitation but out of an innate need to synchronize with the rhythm of the place. The first breath filled his lungs with dust and burnt plastic. He didn't cough; not yet. The body had to first understand that this air would be the only one available for a while.


The sounds were strangely selective. Children's voices were heard somewhere far away, not joyful but persistent. A man was calling out names, with the desperation of one who knows no one will answer. On the other side, silence. Not stillness, but a heavy silence, full of things no longer said.


The first contact with the field office was almost mechanical. A container painted a faded white, with a humanitarian organization symbol that had begun to peel off. Inside, a fan spinning fruitlessly, papers stacked in folders, maps pinned with scribbled notes. Everything indicated an attempt to impose order where reality refused to comply.


They gave him a name on a list. Not his own; he knew that one. It was the name of the camp, the number of tents, the estimated people. Numbers that looked innocent on paper. Numbers that translated into faces outside.


A man with cropped hair and a look that had learned not to show surprise explained the basics. Food distribution every three days, water twice a day if there was no interruption, a medical unit with limited capabilities. He said the word limited as if he were talking about something abstract, not about lives hanging on it.


The first translation was done without preparation. A woman approached holding a child in her arms. The child was not crying. That was what worried her the most. His eyes were half-open, his body warm in a way that didn't fit. The woman was talking quickly, as if she was afraid that if she stopped, reality would catch up with her.


The words passed from his mouth in another language, clearer, colder. Fever, weakness, two days without food. The doctor looked, touched, nodded. There was no medicine at that moment. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.


The word perhaps remained suspended. It was translated too. He felt her weight fall on him more heavily than the heat. The woman left without saying anything. She didn't need to. Her back said enough.


Later, when the sun had begun to set without cooling, the news came. A child had died on the edge of the camp. Not from a bomb, not from a bullet. From dehydration and fever. The name was not recorded immediately. There was no time. There was no space.