Day 1,036

The child was in his classroom.
Classroom? More likely a tent.
More likely a structure
without walls, ceiling, foundation.
The child — a boy,
sixth grader — was
in his classroom, writing
in his notebook. Writing
what? Some fact
of history? Geography?
The location of some
river? Or an algebraic
equation: what does X
equal if X minus Y
equals a father? An
older brother? The boy
was sitting at his makeshift desk
in his makeshift classroom
writing in his makeshift notebook
when suddenly a quadcopter
stopped still
in the air above him.
Hung there. Took aim. Fired.
Suddenly. Suddenly the hand
that had been holding the pencil
stalled in midair. Blood
spilling over the page
where he had been writing,
the hand dropping uselessly
by the boy’s side.