The elevator door won't close. Three of us are onboard, headed down to the shelter after an alert at a little after midnight.

It takes me a while to spot the problem: a neighbor is trying to put a sweater on over her nightgown. Her elbow keeps tripping the electric eye that keeps the door open. I want to tell her that she's blocking the door. In the moment, I can't recall how to say "blocking" in Hebrew. I say it in English. The other woman in the elevator understands, and pulls the woman with the sweater closer to her. The door closes, and we descend.

While I'm still in the shelter, a relative upstairs posts to the family WhatsApp that the attack sounded awfully close. I don't hear anything. Reports later show that fragments fell about a kilometer from here, near a bank from which a friend had just returned. The city reminds us not to touch the shrapnel, or anything else that falls. Iran has been throwing cluster bombs at us, so smaller fragments may still be explosive.

The senior staff deliver our breakfasts and suppers at about nine in the morning. For Purim, they're all wearing goofy, fuzzy headbands. They also hand out a simple black and white booklet of stapled pages. The cover says "For active minds and calm hearts... with love from the House staff." Inside are crossword puzzles, word searches, Sudoku, and other games that I can't identify.

A different group of staffers comes by at about noon with our lunches. This time, several of us have heard the cart rolling down the hall. We wait at our open doors with plates and bowls ready, like cats who have heard a can opener.

An alert sounds just as I'm placing my lunch on the kitchen table. I head down to the shelter. We get the all-clear a few minutes later. I head back up. Right when the elevator reaches my floor, we get an alarm. I head back down.

After another alarm, just before 3 PM, I drop over to the nurses' office for my twice-daily blood sugar check. (The numbers are coming down nicely.) While I wait outside, a staff member guides two soldiers to the continual care department. They are carrying bigger guns than I've ever seen before. The staffer thanks them for coming then walks away.

She then walks back to me and asks me repeatedly if I'm OK. I tell her that I am. I wonder why she's so concerned. I realize after she leaves that, oh yeah, I had a major health crisis a few weeks ago, and I'm sitting alone outside the nurses' office. No, I'm OK. Really.

Although we're not supposed to have large gatherings, the government of the next town over have announced a massive Purim party this afternoon in the underground parking decks of the big new fashion mall. We're really not supposed to travel anywhere, but maybe the folks who shop there can afford to hire teleportation devices.

An article in the newspaper Davar tells us that the family of the Filipino caregiver who was killed by a missile a few days ago will receive all the insurance benefits due a victim of terrorist attacks. The company who employed her said (via Google Translate), "She chose not to leave her patient and stayed by her side, even though there was no protected space in the house. Her actions reflected extraordinary courage, deep dedication and extraordinary humanity. Her death is a painful reminder of the deep connection and true commitment that Filipino caregivers share with the people of Israel – a connection built on responsibility, compassion and love."

While many of us in the country have access to shelters, too many still don't. This is especially true in Arab areas. Another article in Davar looks at the situation in the town of Kafr Qassem. One resident said (again, via Google Translate) that on the first night, it was as if they were under a rain of shrapnel. They gather in schools that stay open all night, and keep an eye out for unexploded fragments. And all this is happening during Ramadan (which I had forgotten until the article reminded me), and in the midst of the ongoing economic crisis since the start of the war with Gaza.

An alarm sounds, without a preceding alert, right at 8 PM. I get in the elevator with two other residents. We hear a boom before the door closes. One of the women, who usually has a maddeningly take-charge attitude in all situations, is seriously freaked out. She shakes as the other woman holds her.

The elevator stops on another floor, before we reach the ground. One resident, who is not too aware of things and was somewhat of a jerk even at his most coherent, tries to get in, slamming his walker into the person nearest the door. We have to shout at him several times that there's no room before he backs off and heads to the other elevator, a few meters away.

The alarm without an alert isn't a fluke. When the missiles come in from Iran, it takes long enough that there's time for both. When Hezbollah attacks from Lebanon, there's about a minute and a half before missiles get here, only time for the alarm.

We're only in the shelter for a few minutes before we get the all-clear. I head up to my apartment and sit down to finish writing this. Hopefully we won't have any more interruptions from the skies before I send it.