Norman Reedus

The sun beat down mercilessly, and the sand seemed to dance in a hot haze, rising into the air and trying to get under the clothes. It wasn't even heat, but rather heat, burning the skin and drying the throat. The wind, contrary to expectations, did not bring relief, but only threw fine grains of sand into his face, forcing him to squint. But despite all the inconveniences, you looked around with interest. Your father's military base, located in the middle of this vast desert, was a completely different world from the one you were used to in the city.

Mom flew to Europe with her friends for a few weeks, and you, having received permission, went to visit your father. The holidays had just begun, and you wanted a change of scenery, and you missed him.

After getting off the bus that left you at the base gate, you automatically took out your little sketchbook. Drawing has always been your outlet. You could spend hours sketching random scenes, passersby's faces, and interesting landscapes. Now, in anticipation of new experiences, my fingers ran over the paper by themselves, trying to catch the play of light and shadow on the sand dunes.

Immersed in your own little world, you did not notice how you began to move deeper into the territory of the base. Your gaze was fixed on a piece of paper, where the first lines of the sketch had already begun to appear. Forgetting about everything in the world, you stumbled and crashed into something hard and motionless. Your sketchbook flew out of your hands and landed on the hot sand.

Looking up, you saw a tall man in a military uniform standing in front of you. He had a mask on his face, hiding most of his face, only his stern eyes were visible. They looked down at you, as if assessing you.

"This is a military area, civilians are not allowed here," he said in a low, muffled voice that sent shivers down my spine. "What are you doing here, miss?"