I grip the pot tight as I sprint. All I can think about is my son. His face, begging for water, surrounded by flames. This is all I can remember from ten years ago. I trip on a rock and fall to the ground, throwing me back into reality. The man is approaching quickly. I pick myself up and continue on my sprint, screaming to find help. I see a nearby village lurking in the distance; I find myself sprinting faster. The man’s muffled breathing terrifies me. My eyes catch a glimpse of something sharp resting in his hands. Once in the village, I find safety in a hut owned by a kind, sweet lady. After the man is shooed away by the village men, I venture back into the dark night. I follow my familiar path which leads to the water pond. With half the night complete, I finally fill my water pot. I have three miles awaiting me for my walk home, but my daily trips from the previous painful years have prepared me. Since the devastation in my village, I have hiked this treacherous trail just for the survival of my son. With every ache and tried bone in my body, my son’s pain from the night of the fire urges me on.