His lips move quickly, as if he’s rattling something into a headset. At the same time he starts to move through the crowd of students on the sidewalk towards Jacob.

He runs. The sidewalk is narrow and uneven, and he stumbles and weaves with his arms out in search of something to catch hold of. He grabs a man walking in front of him and manages to stay upright. The man says something, but Jacob has already run by.

The street branches, and he turns to the right, towards the American hospital and Hamra Street. He crosses between honking cars and people on their way home or headed to restaurants and shops. The hill is steeper than he remembers and he goes as fast as he can while panic threatens to paralyse him. He looks back over his shoulder and sees the man in jeans and headset is only fifty metres behind him.

The man is faster. Just like yesterday, but now there’s nowhere to hide. This will soon be over.

Jacob’s up by the grey concrete hospital now, panic pounding inside him. The street is full of honking cars trying to make their way into the hospital’s improvised parking lot. He’s passed by here before, amazed by the chaos allowed to reign even here, outside the hospital.

Like everywhere where crowds gather in Beirut, there are several makeshift guard posts. Sandbags, rolls of barbed wire and rusty bars. Tired soldiers and police officers carrying heavy automatic weapons and caps around their necks. He feels his fear rising: what if the guards are looking for him too? What if he’s heading straight into the lion’s den?

The man is close to him now; Jacob doesn’t even dare to turn around. It’s as if he can hear the man’s steps even through the street noise, as if he can feel his breath on his neck. In any case, the soldiers in their worn camouflage uniforms just follow him listlessly with empty eyes as Jacob heads up the street.

That’s when the idea hits him. He doesn’t know where it comes from, maybe it’s just the lack of any other options. Jacob heads for a couple of young soldiers standing and smoking at their post. He opens his mouth and screams as loudly as he can in Arabic: ‘Bomb! He has a bomb!’

It’s as if his words cast a spell that makes the whole world freeze. The flow of people between the hospital and the parking lots halts. This is Beirut. They know all about bombs here, and it takes no more than a millisecond for the world to switch to a whole other tempo.

The soldiers are on their feet now, cigarettes thrown to the ground, the automatic weapons raised, stress flashing in their eyes.

‘He has a bomb!’ Jacob screams again and points to the man behind him.