The journey is slow. The train crawls through the outskirts of the city, passing rows of paneláks—the towering, gray concrete housing blocks that stretch endlessly toward the horizon. They look like tombstones.

In the compartment across the aisle, an old woman clutches a string bag filled with empty bottles, returning from the recycling center with a few coins in her pocket. A soldier in a rumpled uniform sleeps with his head against the vibrating glass, his mouth slightly open, his rifle propped between his knees.