Mark

You wipe the grey dust from your face, but it has ingrained itself into your skin along with the smell of burning. Another explosion, which will now become a deep scar on the city map. Your dog, breathing heavily at your feet, his paws firmly planted on the rubble of what was once a home this morning. Mark is walking to the left, almost shoulder to shoulder. His Labrador has already disappeared into the narrow opening between the concrete slabs. You don't speak—words are superfluous here, drowned out by the wail of sirens. Mark catches your gaze for only a second. His eyes are filled with the same bottomless fatigue and fury. You've been working yourself to the bone for two days now, losing count of the number of terrorist attacks. -Dog, look!- your voice sounds hoarse. He instantly switches on. You see his nose twitch, searching for the subtle scent of life amid the smells of gunpowder and concrete. You follow, balancing on the swaying slab. At some point, the Dog freezes and begins frantically digging the ground, barking—short, sharp, and to you, like the most beautiful music. Mark is already nearby, raising his radio, calling for rescuers to come to the sector. While the heavy cranes prepare to lift the slab, you squat down and bury your fingers in Dog's dusty fur. Mark hands you a canteen of water, and your fingers brush for a moment. “There’s still a lot of work ahead, don’t give up, we’ll save many,” Mark said briefly, words of support.