The Window

Abby Cockerill

Maybe it’s their first date. They were college students who always glanced over the top of the macbooks they could barely afford to steal glances at one another. She had finally built up the courage to place a sticky note on his notebook that week, a small message placed neatly on the paper. He smiled while he read it and wrote his number in handwriting that appeared illegible compared to her beautiful cursive words. She texted him immediately and they made plans for that Friday afternoon. He took her out to a movie. They made small talk as they sat down in the uncomfortable chairs, quieting only when the lights dimmed. If you asked them later what the movie was, neither of them would remember. They were too busy staring at each other freely and accidentally brushing hands when reaching for the popcorn. They went to dinner at a small Italian restaurant. The kind that brought hot bread out before the menus. It wasn’t too fancy, but she found it incredibly charming. They went for ice cream. She saw the ice cream shop glowing down the street as they exited the restaurant and insisted they go. He got mint chip and she got chocolate. They each stole bites of the other’s cone as it melted down their hands and face, sharing laughter when a big drip of chocolate spilled down his floral shirt. She wiped it with a napkin even though it didn’t help. In fact it made it worse. They sat down as the conversation lulled into comfortable silence, only breaking when a golden retriever trotted by. Many people passed by as they watched the setting sun, finishing up their cones. When the sun had finally disappeared from the horizon, they started the walk back to her apartment hand in hand. Her roommate would be watching through the window of her room as they said their goodbyes. That night they would both lay in bed thinking about every detail of the date and smiling as they drifted off to sleep.

Maybe she’s had that dog for a long time. She got her as soon as she moved into her new apartment. The paint was chipped and faded and the floorboards creaked with every small movement. It was too big for just herself, filled with boxes labeled in sharpie piled in every corner. It was lonely. Her dad convinced her to get a dog after she complained over the phone for the fifth time about the apartment. She was hesitant at first, worried about the responsibilities it would hold. She decided to at least go see some dogs at her nearest shelter. The moment she locked eyes with the 2-year-old golden retriever, all of her worries dissipated. She could swear the dog smiled, tongue out and tail wagging. The dog, her dog, ran up to her and climbed into her arms. That was the first hug of many to come. They shared memories of long car rides to her dad’s house in Massachusetts, spilled cups of coffee paired with the shirt stains to prove it, and morning runs where the air felt just right and the sun was just waking up. She’d had a long day of work typing away on her computer, and the night was perfect for a walk. Her dog knew before she even said the word. So slipping on some sneakers and clipping her dog’s favorite leash to her collar, they set off down the street. The sun was setting, splashing warm colors across the sky and sidewalk. The streetlights illuminated her face as she strolled down the block, passing a man with a large brown stain on his shirt and a girl holding a half-eaten ice cream cone who shared an “awwww” as the girl and her dog walked by. Emboldened by pride she smiled as they continued on. They sat down on a bench a couple yards down, across from an old man with wire-rimmed glasses sitting at an Italian restaurant who offered compliments to her dog while glancing over a large menu. They watched as more people came and went as the sky got darker and the street got brighter. When they had both caught their breath, they got up and continued on down the familiar street, walking side by side.

Maybe he is a regular at that restaurant. He’s lived here since he was young. Even though the storefronts rearrange and the paint on houses chip and change, the streets stay the same. Just like him. He wakes up at the same time every morning, eats breakfast and turns on the 8 o’clock news. He goes on a short walk most days, but on Tuesdays and Thursdays he switches it up and walks until his feet hurt and his knees cramp. He drives to work in the old Honda Accord he got in his 30s. The engine still hums the same melodic tune it did back then. The bells above the door jingle as he pushes it open, going straight to sit in the old armchair behind the counter. He picks up a book seated on a small table hugging the side of the chair, lifting his glasses from around his neck to frame his face. A couple of customers wander in, glancing around, purchasing some small items, offering some kind smiles, trying to meet his gaze. He doesn’t so much as glance over the top of the wire-rimmed glass. The old grandfather clock in the corner strikes out its familiar six chimes and he stands up, groaning about his knees before the last one rings out. He locks the door back up and makes the short walk over to the little Italian restaurant in which he spends his evenings. With no need to walk up to the hostess table, he makes his way to an empty table. His empty table. He picks up the menu as a habit, although he already knows his order. He looks out to his crowded street with women walking golden haired dogs, families enjoying some time out of the house, and couples out on dates making heart eyes towards each other at every opportunity. He ends the night the same way. Walking back to his car alone, his legs creaking with every step, leaving his street the same way he always has. Maybe they’re visiting this place as a family vacation. The boy was hoping to go somewhere more exciting for his last week of summer before second grade, but this will do. The hotel room they are staying at has a really bouncy bed, and he bets it’s the bounciest bed ever. They are going to have dinner with some family friends that live in the area, and his parents tell him to put on his shoes because it’s time to go. He wonders why. He’s never even met these people. His parents finally get him off the bed, setting his brand new sketchers down beside him. He rips the velcro back and slips them on his feet. He runs past his parents holding the door. He feels so much faster when he wears them. His parents quickly get him buckled into his carseat, glancing at their watches before they pile into the front. They slip an old CD into the car, bringing it to life. The boy is kicking his shoes on the back of the passenger seat to the sound of the music. His parents are singing along to the lyrics blasting through the speakers. He doesn’t understand what they are saying, but it sounds really cool. His parents pull over the car to park about a block away from the restaurant, leaving the rest of the distance for them to walk. The boy is wriggling in his carseat straps, and knocking on the window until his parents open the door. He hops out of the vehicle as his parents lock the doors with a satisfying click. They fuss with his shirt and his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, but as soon as they look away he undoes their work. He grabs both of their hands as they walk down the busy street. He’s still humming the melody of the song by the time they reach the restaurant.

“Hello?” says a familiar voice I can’t quite place. The boy is smiling at everyone they pass. He sees so many interesting things and he decides this place will definitely be a good vacation. His parents spot their friends sitting at an outdoor table covered by an umbrella. They wave and look expectantly at him to do the same.

“Hello?” The voice questions a little louder, more insistent. My gaze falters, snapping me back to the present. I glance back over my shoulder at the table. Four pairs of eyes all locked on every movement I make. I shift my body back to face the people, offering a shy smile and looking anywhere but their eyes. Eyes say everything they don’t. I blink a couple of times, still a bit disoriented from the change of lighting.

“She asked how school is going,” The voice said, my mind finally recognizing it as my mother’s. I flick my eyes over the woman’s face, on which sat a polite smile that looked slightly uncomfortable. I couldn’t really blame her, seeing as I felt the same. My mind ran through millions of scenarios in the span of five seconds.

“It’s going pretty good,” I decided simply, as a smile placed itself on my face. The woman nodded and smiled at me once more. I glanced over to where my mom sat next to me.

“Why can’t you just hold a conversation? It’s not that hard,” her eyes said to me. I stared at my shoes under the table. The familiar mud stains and creases calmed my mind as the conversation picked up again. They continued telling stories of little to no importance. My minute in the spotlight of the ornate light fixture above the table was over. I turned back around to face the setting sun out the window framed with light blue wood. With the light on my back and my thoughts drowning out the conversation behind me, I looked back down to the crowded street.

Maybe he’s good at talking to people.

Where Are You From?

Bianca Summers

Well, I’m from my mother’s arms and my father’s laugh, of course. I am from a rainbow tutu and pretend weddings at the top of the stairs. I am from the green stand which held the image of Max and Ruby and Wonder Pets. From the white stripes and pocket doors. I’m from the fish-tail braids that never quite worked with my head shape. I’m from rolling down the hills with Dip-n-Dots. From the ledge of my basement window with those sweet hands on my back. I’m from the voice of Charlotte, The Spider, by my first grade teacher and raising my hand to use the bathroom when she asked who the lefties of the class were. From “Lemon Meringue” and “dairy bananas.” Dinosaur stairs and John Deere brownies. I am from fuzzy socks because “we’re sorry you’re sick.” From helicopters to the fish store. The creak of her white porch swing and The Little Red Schoolhouse. From the girls night for the women. I’m from laying between them to stop the volume but only becoming closer to the speakers. I’m from talk radio on a sandy car seat. From the bubble maker that doesn’t work. From the tipping of the lamp and descending on my butt. A parrot envelope opener and a Coors pool towel. I’m from Toys R Us and those damn robot bugs. Strawberry milk spinning on a chair. The yellow book in the black corner of the Macbook. I’m from Earth hour and racing mice to the kitchen. Calico Critters Critters I never had. Patches of violets and Ravinia tadpoles. I come from a four-piece kingdom and bee pee. A radiator to find comfort in and a whisper to be returned with a shout. I’m from PVC pipe telephones and her silly photo cards that would one day make sense. From black and white ink sending me over the edge and from loafers with a little snake skin. Bookshelves made into a home and sound effect buttons in tiger costumes. From her frog collection and the closet’s woody scent. I am from popcorn and a tire swing. A flower bed and a “b” bowl. Fairy dust and revenge cartwheels. I’m from cookie-ookie and “Who’s your real best friend?” From a journal that is vinegar and scribbles.

The Jimmy John’s all the way over there. From spinny chairs, grilled cheese and a paper cup of yuck. Those adorable slippers and stripes with polka dots. I’m from a house that looks just like the one next to it. I’m from a Lolly Barbie and “but they have girl toys.” A pink floral guitar and love. I’m from love, life, falls, and leaves. I’m from the veins that are my roots and the roots that hold my tree.

Sonder

Wami Osikanlu

(definition: “the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.”) do I know you? do I really know you? you tell me your name who are your parents and siblings your friends and foes how you like to listen to the songs of the birds to the friends and watch the sun creep up behind your neighbor’s house in the morning how you love to chew on the sweet tapioca pearls at the pit of your drink and pull a cheeky grin from ear to ear at the people you pass by but I can’t help but wonder what you really see what you really think are the colors in that painting swirling for you as they are for me? what runs through your head when you lie still at night waiting for the blinds to close over your eyes? when you look at others do you think the same as me? do you feel the same as me? do the daggers of the crimson yellow smile in the sky pierce through your skin like mine? does the whistle of the wind make your skin feel like caterpillars crawling from the top of your head to the soles of your feet? how can you prove that you are like me? my mind pounds, the person running round it going too fast I can’t seem to fathom it all or is it all a lie? am I the only one who can see? feel the smile on my skin on a bright day? feel the caterpillars from the whistles of the wind? I race in circles in my mind for an answer but now, all I can ask is “do I even know me?”

If she knew the peace out this window Maybe she would stop looking through that mirror

She has yet to understand the joy of telling the truth When speaking of a cat that scratches

And carry on after a night of singing that sweet song Compared to the fights that persist all night long

She doesn’t know that the birds sing Because all she hears are the sirens

She can’t see the stars Because she only sees the fires

It’s when she takes the step that she learns Mirrors reflect light And from war comes lore

That scars will have stories And hurt results in lyrics

The alarms are apart of the symphony And a flame is where it begins

She will recover And she will discover

Bullet of Sand

James Bartley

Two people sat by the flames of a roaring campfire. A slight wind pushed through the warm southern air, swirling the smoke above their heads and through the fields of Southern prairie grass. One of them was a child, a girl, who stared intently at the yellow and red petaled flower of fire. Her legs, as crossed as the burning logs, bounced as she listened to the cracks and pops of the blaze.

Beside her, with an aged beard and eyes as black as coal, was her father. He was staring, up towards the stars, following the smoke of the fire and the fumes of his cigar. His hat, an old leather stetson, was tilted onto his forehead, shadowing his eyes ever slightly. He had a pistol slung around his hip that swayed in the breeze.

The girl, with eyes of emerald green, turned to him and asked through the midnight air,

“Pa, could you tell me a story?”

For a moment, her father stayed still, dragging in from his cigar. Then, from behind a mask of smoke, he said, “A story? Huh, let me think of one.”

He dragged his eyes back down towards the embers of the campfire like the slow anchor of a ship. He thought to himself, listening to distant coyote howls and whispering winds. A small breeze passed over him, and with it he began to speak.

“Well, there once was a man. He was born from the sands of a desert, with nothin’ but the clothes on his back and the hat on his head. He wandered without rhyme nor reason in that desert for quite some time. Didn’t know what he was lookin’ for, but he was lookin’ for somethin’.”

“Did he find anythin’?” the girl asked.

“Why yes, yes he did. He found a woman, wanderin’ the desert too. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, even though he never near saw one before. Some say they had a burnin’ fire between the two, and wasn’t long ‘fore they started wandering together.”

The girl crossed her arms and said, “Another love story? I’ve heard all these ‘fore.”

Her father darted his eyes towards her. “Hush now, I ain’t done. Now this woman, she said she was from a town far from the desert, down south, and they began to make their way to her home.”

“Did they make it?”

“Yes ma’am, they did. It took some time, but they found it. Down a hill, ‘round all the water of the desert, was a small settlement. Her home.” The man tilted his hat up before continuing, “The people there, they welcomed the man with open arms, and soon he was makin’ friends, a whole life there. In fact, he and the woman fell in together. Probably each other’s first loves.”

“What happened? After that?”

“Well, after some time there, he started missin’ the desert. Now there ain’t nothin’ wrong about missin’ home, but the townspeople didn’t think so kindly about it. Least of all the woman he met. She got mighty jealous of that desert.”

“What’d they do to him?”

“Not much, at first. They talked about him, cursin’ him under their breath and behind closed doors. He didn’t notice, or didn’t care to notice at first, but as he started listenin’ to what they were sayin’, he started to see what they were doin’ too.”

“What were they doin’?”

Her father paused in thought, then said, “At night, well past when they thought the man was asleep, the townspeople would go down to the lake. They would drink from the water while talkin’ ill of him. In fact they were talkin’ ill of each other too, when backs were turned and the water was being swilled.”

The girl sat there, her eyes and ears focused on her father.

“Fights sometimes broke out, but most was hot smoke from a small fire. Thing was, every night, always at the center of the fights, always casting the words of stone, always the first to drink from the water, was the woman.”

The father shifted his feet towards his daughter, his boots dragging through the dirt.

“Now the man, he was terribly upset by this, but he didn’t want to believe that she was to blame. So one day, when nobody was around, he went down to the lake, cupped his hands with the water and took a drink. It tasted like tar, like the hateful words the others spoke of him, and it drove him damn near mad. While the water coursed through him, he would pick fights just like the rest of them, say things he would come to regret. Eventually he started pickin’ fights with the woman too, but some part of her looked like she wanted it.”

“Why would she want that?”

“Don’t know. Maybe she wanted him to fall into some sorta trap, wanted him to hurt for missin’ his home and wantin’ to leave her. Now he was already hurtin’, but the fights just made it worse an’ worse. But no matter how bad it got, she never let him leave. She would always find a way to get him back to the water, with the rest of them, and make him watch as the woman he loved cursed his name, and made kind eyes with other men. She was enjoyin’ it, the fire in her hand, the chaos she controlled and the eyes she drew from it all. It was like she became gospel to those folk. And ‘ventually she didn’t even need the water to do it.”

The father took his hat off of his head, resting it on the log beside him while a cool air flowed through his long, silvered black hair.

“But one day, she took it too far for the man. While at his lowest point, he found her, with another man. And she was wearin’ his hat while they were makin’ hateful love. She told the man of sand to sit there and take it, but he couldn’t. No matter how much of that water she forced down his throat, how much she tempted him with that same evil love, it wasn’t enough to keep him.”

“Did he leave?”

“Oh yes he did. He marched through the town square, his hat placed firm on his head, and took leave soon as he could muster the strength. While he left, he watched as familiar faces from all across town cursed him with all their might. They left all manner of scars on him, takin’ out chunks of his skin of sand, but he did make it out. He never said it outloud, but in his mind he knew he’d be back. For what, he wasn’t real sure.”

“Did he go back to the desert?”

“For a while, yes. But eventually he made his way to other towns, where the people were friendly to him. Was nice for him, but unfortunately the woman would often send some of her folk after him, followin’ to make sure no town would stay friendly for long. Eventually, though, he lost ’em. Made a nice life for himself real far away.”

The girl, inching towards her father, asked, “Did he go back? To the woman?”

“After about ten years, yes he did. But in that time he picked up a thing or two; tobacco, gunslingin’, and what love was really like. On the night of that tenth year he reached the town, revolver in hand, when all the townsfolk were gathered by those evil waters. He had only one bullet in his chamber, forged from the sand that birthed him, and he knew ‘xactly who it was for. Nobody recognized him at first, wearing all sorts of foreign clothes and a face unscathed by their foul mouths, but the woman knew who he was. How could she forget the one that got away? How could she forget that hat he had placed firm on his head?”

“What’d he do?”

“He parted that crowd with just a glance, silenced their voices with the strength of his will. All fell quiet, and from within that there silence the woman spoke. She said, with a voice of seductive hate and evil, ‘so you finally come back to me?’. For a moment, he stood there, unmoved by her words but lettin’ them ring in his head. Then, from his leathered hip, he drew his revolver fast as lightnin’ and pointed it at the place ‘tween her eyes. Held it there, for all her folk to see, until a single gunshot rung.”

The daughter, with eyes wide, asked, “Did he shoot her?” But her father didn’t say anything. He just grinned, tobacco smoke flowing through his teeth.

“No ma’am, he didn’t. He shot the water.”

The father, placing his hat back onto his head, took a final drag from his cigar before flicking it into the campfire.

“From that day on the waters slowly drained away from that lake, and he left that town for good. Eventually, just like that water, the people drained away too.”

The girl was stunned, and with her thinking eyes she asked, “Did he look back?”

“Well, the part of him that drank from the water did, but the part of him that shot it never gave it a second glance.”

During The Strike

Afton Jennings

Context: In France controlled Algeria, a war has broken out. Algerians, who are tired of the colonization of 130 years, are fighting back against the French. Taking control of this war is the National Liberation Front, or FLN. They have little ground against the French, who have full armies and planes for their bombs, and who have been taking Algerians and torturing and killing them. In return, the FLN and other Algerians have to turn to guerilla tactics, or what is now called terror.

During the Battle Of Algiers, a prominent battle the French would eventually win, the Algerians hold a strike to convince the United Nations that they care about their independence. In Europe, a majority white and European council is ready to decide whether Algeria belongs to the French or not.

I stare out of our window at the Casbah. The streets are empty — those that weren’t requisitioned for work are still obeying the strike. The strike will be broken tomorrow, or at least that’s what Father said when we watched our neighbor’s son get forced into a truck. He’s nearly the same age as me, and Mother says I should just be glad it wasn’t me.

I work in the European quarter, for a nice enough French woman. She won’t discuss the FLN with me, and I refuse to mention my family to her. Sometimes she’ll use my name and almost freeze, like she’s forgotten I’m Muslim like the rest of them. She hasn’t seen me for five days. I might be out of work after this strike.

If I’m out of work, I’ll probably try to join the FLN. I don’t like guns, and I don’t really trust the FLN - not since I saw the quiet girl who lived near us taken away for prostitution - and that’s probably the one reason I haven’t joined up so far. I want Algeria to be free as much as the rest of them, I just don’t know if I could stomach killing a man. Of course, it’s something that I can learn to stomach. We’ve all learned to stomach bombs and the checkpoints to get to work and being called names for the crime of being brown in the country that belongs to us. I’ve learned to stomach the sight of bodies.

“Basem,” my sister says, cutting through my thoughts. I’ve been listening to her moving around behind me, clearing up cups and dishes. “Are you going to help, or are you going to dream?”

I roll my eyes, moving to help her gather up the cups for washing. “I’m thinking.”

“About what? There are thoughts in that head?” she flicks my forehead, laughing all the while, and I laugh too. It’s a bit forced. “Is this about the strike? Did Baba get to you when he talked about Pierre firing him? Are you worried about Jeanette?”

“No, I don’t mind if I lose my job.”

“That’s also a problem.”

I frown at her. “I’m not thinking about my job, Samia. I’m thinking about the United Nations.” Samia sighs, taking the dishes to the sink and setting them down. “Do you think they’ll understand the strike?”

“Are you asking me if the strike will work?” Samia says, “because I don’t know. The United Nations doesn’t know us. They know the French. They trust the French. But the strike is big.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I told you I didn’t know, Basem. What do you think that means?”

I sigh, leaning back and watching her wash our dishes. When she notices that I’m not doing anything, she throws a rag at me and gestures to the wet dishes. “They took away Hakim the other day,” I say as I pick up a plate and start to dry. “He probably won’t be coming back.”

“He won’t be. Don’t be a dreamer. We only need him to stay quiet before they kill him.”

“Who even gives them the authority to do these things?” I ask, but I know it’s a foolish question before Samia even scoffs. She shoves a cup at me.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re older than me, you’re so dumb. No one gives them authority. Do you think we gave them authority one hundred thirty years ago? Do you think we went ‘you seem nice, Frenchmen. Rule Algeria for us’? No, idiot! They decided they were in charge, then they went and made a bunch of rules that benefit them.”

She grabs the rag from my hands for the sole purpose of swatting me with it, and I recoil from her. “Alright, alright. You’re so smart, Samia, please forgive me, Samia.”

“Do you think the strike will work? You’re asking me, but you didn’t ask yourself.”

I falter. She’s right, it’s a hard question to answer. Why do I expect her to have the answers when I don’t? “It’s big. It’ll show the United Nations that we’re serious,” I finally decide, “they can’t ignore all of us, and they believe that people should be free.”

Samia clicks her tongue. I don’t understand what she’s trying to say, but I know she’s saying it. I can also tell she’s going to change subjects. Samia is easy to read, or at least I know how to read her easily. “What would you even do if Jeanette fired you?”

“I don’t know. Join the FLN, I guess.”

Samia scoffs. “Do you even know anyone who’s in the FLN? Do you plan to parade down the streets declaring your intentions?”

I feel a rush of hot blood flow into my cheeks. “No one here would turn me in,” I bluster.

“You’re too cocky, Basem. You’ll get yourself into trouble. I know you’d throw up if you had to pick up a gun, and no one’s entrusting your clumsy fingers with a bomb.”

“And you? Would the FLN want you? You’re a woman, and I don’t think you could handle a gun either.”

“I could! I could handle a bomb too, if it came to that! No one would look under my chador if need be.” Samia huffs and turns her head away from me.

“So you’re going to join the FLN, Samia? Risk yourself like that?” I know I sound ridiculous, expunging the risk of the FLN when I just said I’d join myself. But there’s a difference between me and Samia. She’s my younger sister, I’m not going to let her run around and play with bombs. I say as much, making Samia scoff again.

“Maybe I’ve helped out before. You don’t know everything I do, Basem.”

I grab at her shoulder, spinning her around. She exclaims in protest, trying to stomp on my toes. “Don’t tell me you’ve blown something up.”

Samia wrenches out of my grasp, grabbing a cup and scrubbing at it furiously. “Don’t you want to be free, Basem? You’re a dreamer, don’t tell me you think Algeria is going to be free just because we didn’t go to work. France fought in Indochina and lost. We can win here, but they have bombs and soldiers and they kill people indiscriminately. They’ve given themselves the right to murder. Marvel at the empty streets all you want. It won’t bring Hakim back.”

I stare at her turned back as it dawns on me. If Samia knows the FLN, she can get me in! I can’t have her doing stuff to help when I go to work every day for French people who pretend nothing is happening and call me slurs in the same breath. “If you’re in the FLN, you can get me in with the FLN.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Samia! Please, I can’t let you do this alone.”

Samia scoffs, again. It’s a rough sound, the same as when I do anything she deems as stupid. “They’ll catch and torture you, Basem.”

“Not if I’m careful.”

“You’re as careful as a cow. They’ll notice you, the Arab boy, and take you in, and then you won’t come back. Do you remember what they do to people who they don’t trust? Farid did nothing but lose his papers, and now his wife cries every night. She’d be happy to see me shoot a policeman in the head.”

“And they won’t catch you?”

“Do you honestly think the French can tell Algerian women apart? I look religious and suddenly I’m the same as any religious woman to them. That’s how Hamida gets guns to the leaders.”

“You seriously want to go out and give guns to people who have killed?”

“That is the point, Basem. I don’t think I could even consider putting you in contact with the FLN if you react like this to the mere idea of guns. Do you misunderstand what the FLN does?”

“They fight back!”

“They kill people who break their rules. Could you ever put a bullet in another Algerian?”

I stumble over an answer. Samia looks at me with a self satisfied smile. “Could you?” I ask.

Samia turns away from me, dunking a plate into water. “Come here. You have more dishes to dry.”

I approach her, taking the wet plate and running the rag over it. I look at her profile, noting that her eyes are turned away from me. “I’m sorry, Samia.”

“Let’s just pray the United Nations listens to us.” There’s something about her tone that says she doesn’t think they will. She’s probably right. I can’t bear the thought of my sister with a gun in hand, and if the United Nations doesn’t appreciate the strike, that’s surely where this will go. That or the French will kill us all.

“If they ask you to bomb somewhere, would you?”

“The French have already bombed us,” she says, which is a nonanswer. I don’t like it, but she won’t answer any more of my questions, so I’ll stop asking them. I dry the dishes and pray that it’ll be alright in the end. Maybe we’ll win this battle. Hopefully we’ll win the war.