Before dawn Fawziya ties the sacks in the courtyard. They are jute, three large and two small. She ties them with packing twine. The knot is her father's, two turns around the neck of the sack and a half hitch on top. She lifts the first one two fingers off the ground, the knot holds, and she sets it down again. When she has to undo one she takes it from the wrong side and has to go round the other way.

The jute is rough and leaves threads on her hands. The flour sack weighs twenty kilos. She carries it to the gate on her shoulder, the neck clenched in her fist.

For three nights now, in Ta'izz, you can hear shooting even from the courtyard.

In the kitchen her mother is up and not dressed to go out.

Fawziya goes back in for the children's bags. She climbs the three steps barefoot, sandals in hand, and puts them back at the bottom, on the gravel, as she always has.

At twenty past five the truck drives into the courtyard with its headlights on and does not turn them off.

Then Fawziya calls the children by their full names. Hamud Munir. Ruqayya Munir. They come out onto the threshold with their shoes in their hands and stay there, on the concrete, without coming down.

The truck bed is already three quarters full. The tarpaulin is pulled tight and tied to the hooks. Under it there are bags, rolled mattresses, jerrycans, a fan with a dented guard. The places are two, paid for a week ago, the children on their laps. The driver stays standing by the open door, one hand on the roof of the cab, and does not switch off the engine.

Fawziya loads the sacks over the tailgate, one at a time, resting them first on the edge and then pushing them in. She gets Hamud up. Then she gets Ruqayya up. She puts them against the side of the bed, level with the wheel, where the tarpaulin makes shade. The sacks go in a row against the tailgate, knots upward, so they can be grabbed quickly.

Then she takes the phone and calls her sister's number, over there, on the coast. The call does not go through. She tries again. It does not go through. The driver sees and says one thing only: on the coast the lines are down. Fawziya puts the phone back in the pocket of her dress and wipes her hands.

The low road is broken along one stretch, and this week the truck has already changed route once. Today they take the upper way. For tomorrow the driver gives no run. Since the start of the month more than a hundred and thirty thousand people have left their homes, and more than six in ten have left from here. Where they arrive, they lack shelter, clean water and care.

Then her mother comes out onto the threshold. She is seventy and holds on to the doorpost to bend down. She does not climb up and she does not speak. She takes the sack nearest the door, the small one, grabs it by the corner and drags it inside. The jute scrapes on the concrete of the threshold. The sack goes over the step and stops against the door. The noise lasts as long as the threshold, then it ends. The mother goes back out and heads for the second one.

The driver watches. He keeps the engine running.

The second one is already halfway over the threshold. The mother holds it by the corner. Her free hand is on the doorpost. The jute scrapes on the concrete.

Fawziya gets down from the running board. She goes to the threshold. She takes the sack by the other corner and lifts it off the ground. She carries it in herself, down the corridor, as far as the kitchen wall. She stands it upright against the wall, neck up. She comes back out wiping her hands on her dress. Her mother is standing where she was.

The driver looks at the time and keeps the engine running.

Then Fawziya climbs onto the tailgate. She puts her hands under Hamud's arms, lifts him away from the tarpaulin and lowers him down the side. Hamud's feet touch the gravel.

Then she takes Ruqayya. The girl is holding the tailgate handle with both hands. Fawziya opens her fingers one at a time. She lifts her and lowers her. Ruqayya's feet touch the gravel.

At that point she turns to the sacks.

She pulls the last one by the neck and brings it to the edge of the bed. She holds it there, in midair, the weight on her forearms, her arms straight. On the cloth there is a faded stamp, WFP and a year, 2016. It is the aid flour sack, from the other time they left. She reads it. The ink has gone into the weave and does not come out.

Finally she lets go. The sack falls flat on the gravel, a step from Ruqayya's shoes, and does not split open.

The driver waits the time he has. Then he climbs onto the bed and counts the places with his finger, row by row. He finds two. He goes to the gate and signals to two people standing in the street with their bags, a man and a girl. He gets them up over the tailgate, one after the other. He shuts the tailgate and puts the chain in the hook. Then he gets back in the cab, puts it in first and drives out of the courtyard. After the bend the engine can still be heard for a little while. Then it can no longer be heard.

Hamud and Ruqayya stay standing in the dust, beside the sacks. Ruqayya keeps her hand closed as if around the handle.

Fawziya carries the sacks back inside, one at a time, and stands them against the kitchen wall, next to her mother's. She does not untie them.

In the evening no truck comes by. There is shooting, closer than the night before. Fawziya sleeps in her clothes.