Golan Heights, Floating Bridge at Lake Tiberias
Lieutenant Alvarez sat in the wind all night.
At dawn, he noticed that both cups on the table were frosted over. The fog over the lake was thick, a vast whiteout, making the other shore invisible. The lights on the bridge were still on, turning into clusters of yellow in the fog, like fireflies floating in the air.
He stood up and stretched his stiff neck. The coffee in the thermos had turned into a lump of ice; he unscrewed the lid, took a look, and screwed it back on.
Footsteps came from the eastern end of the bridge.
Not cars, but people.
One by one, they emerged from the fog.
The first was an old man, over seventy, holding a cane, wearing an old, faded military uniform. No epaulettes, no medals, just a small badge pinned to his chest — the emblem of the Syrian Free Army, three stars and a sword.
