When the sirens sounded at three in the morning, the five members of the Lutsky family jumped from their beds. This wasn’t the first time that the Houthis in Yemen had fired a missile at Israel, and it wasn’t the first time that their small moshav near Ramla was one of the areas alerted to the incoming attack, so the Lutskys were familiar with the drill. They ran downstairs to their safe room−a reinforced room on the ground floor that served as Natan’s office on the days he worked from home, and which would now provide protection for their family.
As she passed through the kitchen, five-year-old Miri glanced out the window. The sidewalk was lit by a streetlight; the Frenkels’ house next door was completely dark.
“Abba, there’s a man outside!” Miri said, stopping in her tracks.
“Hurry, Miri,” her mother Anat called from the doorway of the safe room. “We only have a minute to get in.”
The siren was still wailing, but Miri didn’t move. “That man doesn’t have a place to go! The rocket could hit him!”
“Which man?” Natan asked, joining his daughter in the kitchen. “I’m sure he’s okay,” he said, urging his youngest daughter to follow him to safety.
“He needs to come in!” Miri said. She brushed aside Matka, the family mutt, and said, “I’m opening the door.”
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