The battered gray sky whips by with ominous beauty. The choppy waters below darken with the setting of the sun. My avid hope is no one comes walking up the road from the shore tonight. I hope no one braves the winds and rough waters. I stand guard at the gate wrapped in multiple layers of clothing. Warmth is a fleeting friend.

Every time I see a car approach from the lower road I brace myself for the possibility they may turn in here. It is only 4:30 PM and the sky is dark. The night shift is underway and I know it will be a long one. Who would make such a perilous journey? Nine kilometers from Turkey to Lesvos: This trip is arduous at best, but pack down an inflatable dingy with 60 people with frigid waters assaulting all sides and it becomes torture.

Life vests are manufactured out of old shirts, couch cushions, anything that can be stuffed into neon orange plastic and made to look like it could possibly save someone. Fleeing ISIS, mustard gas, beheadings, famine, rape, and so much more, these refugees cast all their worldly possessions into one tiny boat. Turkish smugglers charge 750 to 1,200 Euro a person for the cheap seats. The prices seem to be going up.

Middle class doctors, business owners and families leave all they know to be shuttled and shuffled from place to place. The camp I am at is simply a way station. The incoming people get food, a change of clothes and a bus ride to other camps where the compassionate bureaucracy begins. Single young men and non-Syrians are separated from the families and unaccompanied minors are put in safe hands — agencies and NGOs that will keep them away from traffickers.

I see the lights of a coastal Turkish town across the Aegean. I wonder who waits in the forest behind it for a call from the coyote? Who waits for a chance at freedom from persecution? Who sits in the cold darkness on this night, 9 km away, wondering who and what waits for them on this side of the water?