"And then, and then Stand, and then we have to drop the bombs on them before they shoot us. And, can I tell you something, Stand, we have green core energy."
Sixty feet below us rests a pool. The drop is sheer. The valley's dehydrated walls are bare. Slabs of compacted dirt clutch the cliff face, waiting in the sun, waiting for gravity to take notice. Some trees grow here, though I don't know where they find water. It's all down there, in that pool. Up ahead the trail keeps following the rim of the gorge. Mountains rise along it's left, flanking the path between steep inclines. It is picturesque.
"Hold your fire men. Roger, Roger. Ok and, and FIRE!"
Two rock-hard dirt clods fall from on high. One shatters against the ground, reduced to a cloud of dust -- a staccato death. The other makes the pool. Mine didn't make the pool.
"Stand, can I tell you something, Stand, and then we have to get back to base."
I am Stand. He is Collin Stern. Faint freckles, a spontaneous mess of hair. This kid is 100 percent six years old. He is the playwright of his life -- in total control of every bullet wound, castle storming and alien attack. Total control of everything, everything except reality. He is also the youngest. Collin knows of life's injustice.
I can relate. I am not in control here. And I like escaping too: in books and, today, a hike with my biggest fan.
