Not the Crusades or World Wars, not Korea or Vietnam but some unholy virus has seized our boy on the naked beach of his eighth year and it holds him in a cell we cannot enter. He is fevered and wild and keeps invisible enemies at bay with his bare hands. You tell him you are his father but it doesn’t matter. The small hanger of his shoulders lifts — he is focused and angry, upright but still sleeping and he’s out to kill you, too. Our son told me a dream he once had. He was a knight among many knights on a high castle wall and was pierced by an arrow and fell and fell and fell. He was just like the rest of us: a slave, a carrier of rock, servant to some diseased king. At the hospital the doctors are bright foolish men in white coats. But I love them for their kindness. It is the only real food we have at this moment. I’m thinking of someone’s daughter who, at ten, one day in June, could not walk straight. She died in October. It is still October. Parents are weeping all over the world.