In blue spray paint, words were written on the west wall of the old house. Simple sentences expressing thoughts. A fire in the fireplace roared.

These statements, some questions,  glowed in the dark. Shadows were cast on them. A boy made animals with his fingers, jumping over words and exclamation points while his father whittled wood with a long knife. A kettle of hot water whistled.

Want some tea? the father asked. I got cinnamon, chai, orange blossom, and mint. The boy shook his head and continued casting shadows. Alright then, he said. Don’t get sick on me. I’m gonna have this chai, he tore open the small packet and read out loud, From the far away land of India, he said, comes a delicious tea that will warm your soul. The old man placed the bag in the Styrofoam cup and waited as if meditating. He hummed an old song from his youth; Main Street by Bob Seger. The boy came over and curled up in his arms. Everything will be fine in a few days, the father said. We got each other, he held the boy tighter.

The fire crackled as alarms throughout the city sounded. The son covered his ears. Planes flew over. Soldiers shot guns in the streets. Women cried. Men yelled.

I wish I could make it all go away, dad said. Just stop, he whispered. The boy began casting shadows on the wall again. What are those? he asked the boy.

Sheep, he said. Sheep in green meadows. Peaceful. Peaceful.

Yes. Peaceful.