One evening, in August 2014, Veronika was collecting her son from kindergarten in a town near Donetsk, just like every other day. A ceasefire had been promised, she thought, and there had been no audible shelling for one or two weeks, then. She bundled her son and the next-door neighbour’s daughter onto her moped and set off home. For some reason, her son was nervous, and wanted them to stop awhile. But all was quiet. She pointed out to him that people were out in the streets, sunbathing on the beach, relaxing. All was fine; all was calm. They stood for three minutes, and suddenly the sky tore itself apart.