“Dreadful business, war is,” muttered a boy not more than five, as he lined up toy soldiers on the edge of his sandbox with great seriousness. “Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful,” he went on. Across the lawn, gnats buzzed and dragon flies thudded into the wide glass of the porch sliding-door. Behind the door, a man angrily worked the knot of a silver tie.
"Time! Time!" he thought to himself.
The sky outside darkened and warm raindrops splashed down on the yard and the house. For a moment, the rain's pitter-patter rolled over the skylight with the rhythm of a metronome. It was a soft drum.
"Time to go! Now!" the man repeated through locked teeth.
At last, he settled on the state of his necktie, and jumped back to examine his reflection in the glass door. It was well tied; the tip perfectly aligned with his belt, and the knot around the collar in a smart-looking tangle. Here was a captain of industry! A hero in the office place! The man was tempted to strike a pose and rest his hands on his hips, as if he was Superman.
"Dreadful business, daddy. War is," said a voice from inside the reflection. The man squinted and realized he was looking at his son, who stood drenched and holding an armless action figure.
"Can you fix his arms, dad?" asked the boy.
"I can do anything," came the answer.
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