In a field far from the war at home, Halina Baran has stepped away from the 27 people she's led across the Ukrainian border and into Poland.
Dragging her luggage behind her, she's sobbing and posing the question, seemingly to no-one: ''How will I feed them?"
She's a mother who knows her family's safety rests on her shoulders alone, but also that her ability to provide for them has just been obliterated by war. Her desperation is palpable.
Her world, already fractured by tragedy, is now darker and more daunting, but testament to her strength is the fact she got them this far.
Halina wanted to be a partner in raising her children, but has already buried two husbands.
Now, at 45, she has been forced to leave her 25-year-old son behind, conscripted to fight for the freedom of Ukraine.
She seems to be the strongest woman, a determined and obvious leader, but each time she speaks about the men she's lost and left behind, Halina breaks down.
She is the reluctant, but incredibly capable, chief of her village.
Halina and her family are from the town of Butsyn in the district of Volyn, 50 kilometres south of the Belarusian border and just north of the Ukrainian military base of Lutsk.
Russia built up troops in south-western Belarus ahead of the invasion and there are reports more reinforcements are being positioned in the area.
To the south, the Lutsk military base was an early target of the Russian forces.
Halina's family were living in fear of an invasion from the north as Russian missiles landed to the south.
With war closing in, it was time to leave.
The escape
With the decision made, the next step was to take as many women and children in her community as she could.
"We have wanted to escape from the first day — the very first day. And I was calling and asking everybody to take us, anybody," Halina said.
The problem was that everyone needed to leave and some people had more means than others.
The difference between life and death could be the price of a tank of fuel.
"My colleague from school. We were in the same class many years ago. He was taking people to Poland," Halina said.
"Other drivers asked for money for gasoline. I was so sorry, but I have no money for gasoline. When the drivers asked me to share the bills, I couldn't.
"This man said, 'I don't need your money.'"
Halina said by the time the van left their village, 28 people had piled into it.
She brought her five younger children, one grandchild, her sister, her sister's children, her brother's children — 14 members of her family — as well as friends and their children, and also ended up riding with a few strangers.
Even still, there were people Halina had to leave behind. Her mother was one of them. She can't talk about it.
The plan to work
A lot of Ukrainians entering Poland at the Dorohusk border crossing have somewhere to go. It might be a vague plan or promise of a room, or a family member that's waiting as the buses roll up.
Halina has a plan, and one aspect of it is incredibly important to her.
She wants to work. It's something Halina weaves into nearly every sentence as she tells her story. She gestures to her older children: "I have hands. And my children have hands too."
They intend to use them to earn their keep away from the war.
There is a district in north-western Poland near the Baltic Sea where Halina believes she can work, and as person after person spills out of the van, she starts shouting "Koszalin".
That's how it's done. Once across the border, those who have a place to go figure out a way to get there and make the next leg of their journey.
A volunteer driver is attempting to help Halina with her bags when she interrupts him. She wants to know where they're going and how they'll all stay together.
From the Dorohusk border crossing, the next stop is a local council centre referred to as a "reception".
These places are where the effort to find people transport, homes, a warm meal and a hot shower converges. Ukrainians who are in need come in, and Poles who want to help drive them where they need to go.
It's chaotic, but also seems to just work.
Poles who are volunteering their time and cars wait until they're partnered with a family who need a lift.
Often they're travelling to an apartment or spare room that's also been flagged as available and the busy volunteers at the reception centre have connected all the dots.
There are a lot of post-it notes and lists, and always a plate of donuts to hand.
Gathered around a table, Halina and her family eat. She is a rush of adrenaline — her cereal spoon shaking as she lifts it to her mouth.
They haven't slept in three days and they just left their home without knowing what's happening to it or when they'll be back again, but for now, the priority is to eat some food, warm up and prepare for the next leg.
The volunteers make sure Ukrainians moving through the reception centres leave with supplies; Halina scoops up bread, water, fruit, toothpaste, whatever is available.
Halina divides her family up into waiting cars and agrees they'll all meet in Warsaw where they can get a train to Koszalin.
She waits for the last car, seeing everyone off ahead of her and taking the opportunity to have one of the cigarettes their driver tucked into her bag — a moment to calm her nerves. She asks if anyone minds.
The final leg
Millions of Ukrainians work abroad and Poland is their primary destination. Five years ago, Halina was one of them.
She worked as a hotel cleaner and a former boss called her recently and told her to bring as many people as she could to the town of Koszalin.
They would have a place to stay, and most importantly, a place to work.
"Ukrainians are hard-working people. It's impossible we will be in a position where someone is giving something to us all the time — no," Halina said.
Her nephew, a boy no more than 11 years old, speaks up, insisting he will work too. She tucks him under her arm and winces with pain.
After a night spent in the hospitality of strangers, they're on a train to Koszalin. Exhausted, but smiling, thankful and together.
"The children say that they are confused but they feel better now than in previous days," Halina said.
The future
A day later, Halina and her 14 family members make it to Koszalin.
"I don't know what to say, I was really happy. I was so happy that the people were taking care of us. So many cars come to take us.
"Now I'm feeling good. Now I feel relief."
Halina and her family lived close to the Polish border, so their journey, while challenging, was not long.
At the Medyka border crossing, south of Dorohusk, Ukrainians say they have travelled for up to four days, some of them on foot, to reach safety.
They then face queues kilometres long to actually step onto Polish soil.
So far, it's estimated that 1 million Ukrainians have fled their country, hundreds of thousands of them into Poland. European leaders have said member countries should brace for millions more.
Ukrainians who officially register as refugees in Poland will have a pathway to employment without sponsorship and are provided shelter.
City leaders have told the ABC they need funding from the national government. That the reception centres need more money and supplies to keep going.
As Ukraine's two biggest cities of Kyiv and Kharkiv come under heavy Russian fire, it's expected those who have not yet left, will be forced to.
Those who are the last to leave, are perhaps those with no obvious place to go.
Halina has every intention of returning home. Right now, the family she has with her are OK, but it's those back home who her attention turns to at every quiet moment.
For every family that makes it to safety in Poland, or in Ukraine's other neighbouring countries, there are members left behind.
And for women like Halina who can't bear another loss, the only option is to hope the war comes to a speedy end.
"One month, not more I think. I don't know what to do then," she said.
