An elderly man sat behind the reception desk, his eyes meeting mine with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. “Need a room, ma’am?” he asked, his voice a comforting anchor in the sea of despair threatening to drown me.

“Yes, please,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

The room was musty, but it was a haven compared to the desolation outside. I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to absorb the enormity of the situation. My mind raced, alternating between disbelief and betrayal. The notion of returning home felt like a distant dream, especially with no means to contact my son. I needed a plan.