Dust hung in the room, a gray film that softened the jagged edges of everything. A toilet lay on its side near the doorway, porcelain splintered like bone. Each concussion from the guns outside sent a tremor through the floor and a slow drift of ash from the ceiling. The air tasted of lime and smoke. Somewhere down the street, a wall gave way, and the sound rolled through the ruins until it dissolved into quiet. I tightened the strap on my helmet and waited for the next barrag e.

Out beyond the village, Azov fighters were setting fire to the fields. They mixed gasoline with polystyrene until it thickened, then poured it into jerry cans. The flames caught and spread through the dry grass. From our position we couldn’t see the trenches, only the reflection of the fires flickering

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