A short ways before the Macedonian border, I decide to stop for gas. To me, no matter what, a border means embarking on yet another journey into the unknown. And I’m fond of being well organized when I do so. Here, the E75 epitomizes my idea of the classic Balkan highway: straight as an arrow as far as the eye can see, with two lanes, wide shoulders, and a double solid line in the center—whatever the exact meaning of that might be.

The gas station’s easy to make out from afar, but you can hardly see it at all once you’re up close. The whole area is completely covered by refugee tents. So I plough my way through this little tent-village, and between 1,500 and 2,000 people (about half the population of the place I come from) keep me company while I fill up.

I decide to stick around a bit. And in the evening, I go out with some volunteer helpers. Suddenly, one of them puts a set of keys on the table.

It’s the house keys of a Syrian who gave it to him with the words: “Here, they’re for you—I don’t need them anymore.”