"Don't."

  "Don't turn the lights on?" 

  "And keep your voices down." 

  Not much taller than a lower grade student, sitting in the 2x4 chair.  Someone knelt beside.  Someone moved to empty the ashtray.  A hand sprung for it and claimed it.  "How's your son?" 

  Staring through the picture window at the scavenging.  "We call them zombies," a child sat Indian-style, back straight against a chair leg.  "We don't go out there any more," another child sat the same, wrapped an arm around a leg.  A hand reached up for the flask. 

  "They sent home dirt in a flour sack."  The flask was passed hand to hand to hand.  Lips just wetted.  Gulps.  Almost a dozen people breathing steady, little puffs of steam from mouths opening but no words coming out.  "What's it mean?" 

  Dark figures approached the window and pressed not-saluting hands to glass to peer in.  "More war."