Update: (4:00 pm local Gaza time)

I dial and hold my breath. During the cease fires, there was a sense of ease that my family gave. I know they had hardships, but it was “less” in the sense that there weren’t tons of weapons being thrown at them from the skies. I am anxious again and every minute of every call and every minute I don’t speak to them brings a terrible sense of dread to the heart.

Asmaa answers, with short pants. I can tell she is outside. “Alo,” she says quickly.

Where are you? I ask nervously.

“We went to get my mother medicine, she is not well,” she replies with the sound of her moving in the streets draping over me.

Please be…before I can finish what I am saying, I hear what sounds like explosions. Not now, please not now, I start praying in my head. Get what you have to get and go home, please, I tell her.

“We will, but my mother needs her medicine, she is not well,” Asmaa’s voice cracks with concern. She is holding in a lot of worry and pain, I can hear it.

Ok, I will call you in a few hours. Please get the medicine and go home as soon as you can.

“Don’t worry, we will,” she says as her breath quickens. “Bye,” she says.

Bye, habibti, I say. I wait for her to hang up. The last things I hear is the swooshing of her clothing and the mortars above their heads. My heart races, anticipating the next call to make sure they made it home alive.