"Can I go outside to play after dinner?" my son asks me. "I'm bored in here." I finish chewing a particularly tough piece of meat, and look up from my plate at him. "No," I reply.
"Not while it's raining."
"But it's *always* raining, Mom! It's been raining for weeks!" He storms off downstairs to the basement, where his toy box is.
"You'll have to tell him the truth eventually," my husband says to me. I look over at him sadly. "I know. Just not yet." Then I look over at the boarded windows, offering no view of the yard.
Outside, the distant thunder of artillery, the rhythmic patter of machine guns.