The rockets start raining down at her kibbutz usually around late morning.
That leaves Adele Raemer precious little time to walk her two dogs and then dash into the shower.
Because when those rockets arrive -- triggering air raid sirens that fill the air with short, shrill howls -- she has to be ready to duck and take cover in her indoor bomb shelter.
There, all she can do is wait.
On the other side of the border, across the security fence in Gaza, Rasha has no safe room to run to.
The fighter jets can come any time, day or night.
And in this place, one of the most congested on earth, there's a high probability that if a bomb falls nearby, it might destroy her house, too.
So, all she can do is pray.
This isn't what life was always like for either woman. But ever since the long simmering tension between Israelis and Palestinians flared up this week, rockets and airstrikes have crisscrossed between Gaza and Israel.
Neither woman cares for the politics of hate. They just want to live a life of peace and safety.
But the new normal has upended everything -- for them and for those around them
One fence, two fates
Raemer lives in Kibbutz Nirim, a Jewish community in Eshkol, just over a mile and a half from the border with Gaza.
The fortified safe room has become the focus of Raemer's life around the clock.
"Everything is ready to make it easy to run (to the safe room)," she says.
She has shoved her coffee table, her carpet, anything that blocks her path off to the side, so she can make it there in seconds.
Authorities warn that it takes a rocket just 15 seconds to land after the warning has sounded.
"It's not 15 seconds. It's closer to 10," she says. "Sometimes you hear boom and then you run."
Rasha lives in Khan Yunis. She's afraid to use her real name. She doesn't want her identity published, because she worries someone might misconstrue what she says as political statements, take offense and come after her.
Like Raemer, the attacks have consumed her, without her wanting it to.
Schools are closed. Shops are abandoned.
She sits at home all day. When the power goes out, she sits in the dark, listening to sounds of bombs dropping.
"The sound is very strong," she says.
Raemer is an online trainer. She works a lot from home. So, unlike many others, she doesn't have to step outside much for work, and risk her life every time.
But there have been close calls.
Since tensions spiked, the kibbutz store has kept minimal hours.
It's open for an hour in the morning and one in the afternoon. So Raemer popped by recently to pick up rations. Then she heard something.
"I ran into the refrigerator room," she says.
There have been others. Four rockets have landed within the borders of Nirim this week.
She is also afraid of Hamas digging tunnels underneath the kibbutz and filling them with explosives.
In Khan Yunis, neighbors poring through the ruins of what were homes has become a familiar sight.
It happened again on Tuesday when Israeli warplanes flattened a house. It belonged to a member of the militant group Hamas' military wing. And several men were forming a human shield on the roof.
Before most strikes, the Israeli military makes warning calls, known as a "knock on the roof," to minimize civilian casualties.
But, as cramped as Khan Yunis is, collateral damage is sometimes inevitable.
Seven people died in the Tuesday attack, including two boys, ages 10 and 11.