We woke underneath a damp blanket in a wet tent.

It hadn’t rained in the night, Ayamin’s pack just had so much water in it that the tent, blankets and clothes inside hadn’t been able to dry before we went to bed.

But the minute that hot summer sun came up we flopped outside onto the grass and began to sunbathe.

‘I think we need at least another day of drying,’ Ayamin said as steam rose up from our clothes, ‘Let’s stay here for the night, regather our strength.’

It was rice again for breakfast, then sunbathing until lunch. After crab apples and (more) rice I dipped the tip of my foot into the stream. It was cool, but not cold. Perfect for a swim.

‘Perhaps we can just stay here forever,’ I pulled my shirt off, ‘I could build us a house, we can swim in the stream, and sunbathe in the grass all day.’

‘I’ve got one condition,’ Ayamin said from her seat on the grass, ‘Our house has to have a yellow door.’

I nodded, and stood leaning over the water in just my boxers. I crouched, prepared to jump, then stopped and turned to her.

‘Hey Aya? Why a yellow door?’

‘It’s like the sun, you know? It brightens up your day, it welcomes you in,’ she walked over, scooped up a handful of water, and let it drip through her fingers, ‘Our house had a yellow door.’

The water drops made little ripples in the stream as they landed. I could see her reflection in the little ridges as they spread outwards.

She smiled, crouched, and together we jumped.

****

The pack felt like it was made of air when I slipped it back on. We followed the stream back towards the highway, then we followed the highway to the border. It took us a week and a half of walking to get there and as time wore on I began to notice things about my body.

I felt healthy, my legs didn’t ache when I walked, and I found I was smiling, even if our diet was rice, rice, and… more rice.

Ayamin and I talked the whole time. We talked about music and movies and high school and history and about each other and made wild schemes for the future.

Finally, the archway that leads into North Macedonia appeared on the horizon. Beyond it were clean green fields and a road of grey tarmac climbing into the distance. A traveller’s heaven.

But then, as the gate loomed in front of us we looked to our left and saw a very familiar sight.

Hundreds of ramshackle tents littered the field to our left. There seemed to be waves of them, almost crashing like the sea against the border wall. People with raggedy clothes and dirty faces moved through the tents. In a corner some men wearing bandanas were digging a trench, others threw up over it.

Ayamin looked from the tents to me, her eyes narrowed slightly and her head dipped just a little.

‘Let’s keep going.’ I told her, ‘We don’t know what they’ll say at the gate.’

We joined the line at the gate just as a group of Greeks passed through. The next group to approach the guard dragged big white sacks through the mud. They had holes in the knees of their pants and their skin was the same almost olive shade as Ayamin’s.

A large guard who’d let the Greeks through barely looked at the crumpled paperwork the Syrian group gave him. He pointed out towards the rows of tents to his left.

The head of the group shook his head and tried to explain, but the large guard just kept pointing in the direction of the camp and repeating a phrase over and over again. It sounded a lot like go home.

The man with holes in the knees of his pants tried to shout over the guard, who waved his finger in front of the Syrian man’s face. Go home.

The Syrian man stared at the guard’s finger, he reached up, wrapped a hand around it, and squeezed.

The large guard gave a shout and there was a shuffle as four more blue-uniformed guards appeared beside him. They carried batons in their hands.

The Syrian paused for a moment, the guard’s finger was still clutched in his hand. Veins criss-crossed the Syrian’s arm. If he’d given the slightest twist he would’ve broken the man’s finger.

Instead he let go, took his daughter by the hand and led the group towards the makeshift camp beside the road.

When we reached the front of the line, the guard’s eyes skipped over Aya then rested on me, before returning to Ayamin again. He paused. Then said something in a language I couldn’t understand.

Ayamin shook her head, ‘English?’

The man nodded, ‘Some… You have identification?’

Both of us shook our heads, and his eyes narrowed, ‘No identification, no come in,’ he said, then pointed at Ayamin, ‘No Syrian.’

I frowned, ‘What do you mean no Syrian?’

The guard just shook his head, ‘No Syrian.’

‘Where will they go?’ Next to me Ayamin’s hand was on my arm, ‘There are sick people here, don’t you care?’

But the man couldn’t understand, or chose not to. His four buddy-guards marched over. They spoke to each other in Macedonian. But stood with the arms crossed, making it pretty clear we weren’t going to pass.