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Your body. Caving in upon itself. Because now they are lined up against the tiles. Spaced too far apart. Not allowed to touch. Your good man and each of your children so small and thin, as pale as bone, too young for this. Their shoulder blades where their angel’s wings once were are pressed hard into the cold and Mouse needs his father’s hand now, so much, he’s drumming his fingers in a nervous shake, reaching across, and now, and now, a gun is at each of them, each, all aimed straight into their huge racing hearts.

So.

It has come to this.

What men do.

To children.

And good men.

Mine hour is not yet come.
Mine hour is not yet come.
Mine hour is not yet come.
Mine hour is not yet come.