The Ukrainian children were bundled into buses just after midnight from towns in the north and east of the country and shuttled to a railway station to begin their long journey west.
There were 329 children in total, some young enough that they would be starting school this year — others almost old enough to be conscripted. Many had special needs.
Some didn't understand where they were going or why. For others, it was the first time in their short lives travelling anywhere.
All of them were in harm's way if they had stayed.
Ukrainian authorities had organised their secret extraction from areas under Russian-backed separatist control in the east, as well as from around the besieged capital of Kyiv, where Russian forces had already made a bold advance.
Their plan was to whisk the children to the safety of Lviv, a city in Ukraine's west close to the Polish border, which has become something of a sanctuary for many fleeing the war in other parts of the country.
There, the children would be housed in a school building until authorities could figure out what to do with them.
"The children know that there is a war," said Olha Kotovska, a Ukrainian school administrator overseeing the children during their stay in Lviv.
The convoy of children arrived just after midnight on Saturday, where they were welcomed by school staff and given beds and food.
"I'm only scared for my parents," one teenage boy said hesitantly after leaving his home in Mikolaevka, a town near the city of Donetsk.
That night, Ms Kotovska and the school's principal did not sleep a wink.
Bleary-eyed, they set about processing each child's information to make sure all 329 were accounted for and that children with behavioural problems were accommodated with enough space from others.
As school staff wait for the all-clear for the children to return, they do their best to keep a room full of hundreds of children entertained.
Marching down the aisle of the hall, Ms Kotovska shouts across the rows of chattering children: "Have you slept well?" "Have you eaten?"
"Yes," they shout excitedly in reply.
Ushering the children into the school's cavernous assembly hall, Spiderman: Homecoming plays on a projector above the stage, giving the staff time to think.
"We were not prepared for so many children," Ms Kotovska said wryly from the corridor outside.
"They want some presents."
The daring escape out of Russia's clutches
As Russia's invasion of its western neighbour continues, Ukrainian educators have been working around the clock to protect vulnerable children in parts of the country that Russian troops have occupied.
School administrators trained in running the country's sprawling education system are now performing roles outside their usual duties — they have become surrogate parents, caterers, cleaners, hoteliers, travel agents, advocates and security guards.
"We try not to get too involved emotionally because we are officials and we have to do our jobs," Ms Kotovska said.
Ms Kotovska, a no-nonsense woman with the unflappable air of someone experienced with coping under crisis, is serious about the risk of Russian attack on the children in her care.
Since last week, air-raid sirens have rung out across Ukrainian cities every day, including in Lviv, signalling the possibility of an imminent Russian attack.
Though the advance of Russian forces has so far been distant from Lviv, the fear is that the next siren could be the real thing, where the piercing sound would give way to the grim buzz of aircraft or worse, the steady drumming of air raids.
As she speaks, a siren blasts across the street. Making her way downstairs to a lower level, she explains the children will be shepherded to another room on a lower floor until a second siren sounds, meaning the danger has momentarily passed.
"We were not prepared for war. But still, I think the situation is that [we're] going to have to deal with that the best we can," she said.
Although less than a week old, Russia's invasion of Ukraine has already exacted a breathtaking toll on the lives of everyday people across the country.
According to the United Nations, more than 660,000 Ukrainians have fled across the border to neighbouring countries like Poland, Hungary and Slovakia. Queues at border crossings have stretched on for days.
At the Lviv school, there is a gnawing sense of dread among the staff over what is unfolding on the other side of the country and the future that awaits the children under their care.
Like every Ukrainian, they absently refresh feeds on the phone and check notifications on the Telegram app for updates from local authorities.
The school can only provide a temporary refuge. In the meantime, authorities are scrambling to find a long-term solution, hopefully far away from the conflict the children left behind.
