The hay was soft and slightly prickly to sleep on. But it was dry. I woke as light began to enter the hayshed and found a small piece of grass poking my cheek.

I yawned, stood up and walked over to where Ayamin and Grandma had started a little firepit near the entrance of the barn.

I sat down beside Ayamin and kissed her.

‘How are you feeling Danny?’

I shrugged, ‘Stiff and sore, but okay. I think the sleep helped.’

We sat watching the small flames lick at Grandma’s pots.

While the storm raged outside it was relatively peaceful in the haybarn. It felt like maybe we were in the eye of the storm.

There was a sharp click of metal, and I looked around to see a thin, dark-bearded man wearing a dripping coat and pants standing in the entrance of the barn. He started shouting in Serbian and moving closer. In his hands was a soviet-looking rifle. It was pointed at us.

The rest of the family emerged from the hay like mice. Jamal helped Grandpa down into a sitting position.

We were sitting around the fire, Ayamin grabbed my hand, and Grandma’s next to her. She nodded towards Mahdi’s wife, and I took her hand. Within half a minute we were all linked and looking up at the gunman, waiting.

He seemed a little less sure of himself now. Like his plan had only gone this far.

He was moving from one foot to the other, and his jacket swayed from side to side. He shouted in Serbian again and waving his gun around. We all sat there with blank faces.

‘English?’ I tried.

The man snorted and continued his barrage of Serbian words. After about five minutes he seemed to run out of steam. The guy wasn’t young. His hair was grey and his skin all wrinkled from a life outdoors.

In the pot oats and apples were boiling with a whistling sound. The Serbian pointed to the pot, said something in his language, then gestured with his hands like he was eating from a bowl.

Ayamin was the first to move. She reached slowly into a bag and pulled out a bowl and a spoon.

The man nodded.

Grandma scooped a heaped spoon of porridge, then a smaller spoon of the apple sauce. The Serbian man shouted, gestured for her to add another spoonful and then another.

One of the kids licked his tongue, looked up at the man, then back at our breakfast – now half gone. He could do the math.

The Serbian man took the bowl. With one hand on the trigger of the shotgun, he began eating and eating.

The man burped as he finished. Then smiled and pointed back to the bowl.

‘I think he wants seconds,’ Ayamin said.

‘Pig’ Grandma said in Arabic, but on her face, she wore a smile as she ladled more of the steaming meal into his bowl.

We watched him eat with desperate eyes. I saw the children whispering – who was going to miss out?

When the man had finished, he dumped the bowl back onto the hay and seemed unsure of his next move.

He sniffed, then pointed the gun at me, Mahdi, and Jamal then pointed out the door where the rain poured down.

I shrugged like I didn’t understand, so he beckoned with his finger for us to follow, then with the gun still pointed at us he walked backwards into the rain.

We followed. Barefoot and all. Ayamin ran and grabbed our jacket – throwing it to me.

About fifty meters from the barn a faded orange car was bogged down in the mud. The angry man walked into the mud and mimed pushing it, then pointed at the three of us. I nodded as the rain beat down on us.

‘Hey Mahdi, how you feeling man?’ I asked.

‘I’m good.’

‘Well, my ribs hurt like hell. Think you guys have got it?’

Mahdi and Jamal looked at each other and gave a brothers’ nod.

‘Yeah we got it,’ Jamal said.

They stood either side of the car, bending their knees like rugby players in a scrum. I stood in between them with my hands resting on the boot of the car. I hunched my shoulders slightly like I was ready to push but I just let my hands sit there. Little spiderwebs of pain spread out along my ribs. What was I thinking yesterday?

When he looked sure we wouldn’t attack him the man jumped into the car, locked the doors, revved the engine, and stuck a hand out the window – pointing forwards.

My feet sunk into the cold mud and gravel below me. Gritty bits of sand rubbed against my ankles as the vehicle moved forward with both tires spinning.

After a minute-long fight, there was this sucking sound and the tyres began to move against the gravel. The car shot out of its place and the Serbian man gave two toots of the horn.

The man got out of his car, leaving the gun on the front seat, but armed himself with a large sack of potatoes. He handed them to us, then pulled three oranges from a small bag in his back seat.

He gave one to each of us which we accepted like men who’d won the lottery.

The man said something in Serbian, winked, and jumped in his car.

As the faded orange car sped along a track towards an old rickety house in the distance, I looked at Mahdi, and then Jamal. The brothers’ eyebrows were wrinkled – they were confused, and so was I.