THE SHELTER OF SCARS

To keep from slipping into a dangerous, dehydrated sleep, they began to talk. Not about the war, but about anything that could distract them from the dark.

"I have a son," Julian said, his voice echoing softly. "He turned four last month. I missed his birthday. I was in a trench near the river."

He reached into his pocket, his fingers finding his leather wallet. He pulled it out, opening it to a small, faded photograph. He laid it on the dusty concrete, shining the flashlight beam onto it. The photo showed a pretty woman with tired, loving eyes, holding a small boy with wild, curly hair.

Kaelen looked at the photo for a long time. Then, slowly, he reached into his own chest pocket. He pulled out a folded, crumpled piece of paper that had been stained with sweat and dirt.

He unfolded it carefully, as if it were made of glass. It was a child's drawing, done in bright, messy red and yellow wax crayons. It showed a tall man holding the hand of a smaller figure under a very large, lopsided sun.

"My daughter, Lily," Kaelen said, a soft, rare smile breaking through his dirt-smudged face. "She drew this before I was deployed. She told me to keep it in my pocket so the sun would always warm me."

Julian looked at the drawing, then at Kaelen.

In the official propaganda of the Alliance, the Resistance fighters were described as godless rebels, monsters who wanted to destroy their way of life. But looking at Kaelen’s tired eyes and his daughter’s drawing, Julian saw only a father. A man who wanted the exact same thing he did: to go home, to hold his child, and to feel the sun on his face.