There comes a bright morning in the late summer

When a politician journeys out to our house in the high hills

And asks my sibling Gaj and I to kill a god. We are still sleeping when they arrive.

Two black vans kicking up dust across the long trail in the light of the late morning,

pulling up to an abrupt halt just outside the gates of the compound.

We stroll out to watch them in our dressing gowns and our slippers.

Gage folds luxuriantly into the chair on the porch. I lean against the open doorway.

A moment later, the van doors slide open and they come jumping out.

One after the other, like clowns from a clown car.

A dozen mean-looking professionals in the same cheap suit, who line up with their

hands crossed over their crotches, firearms visible in their shoulder holsters, making no move

towards the house. Hard to say just yet, whether that means they can see the bear traps we've laid to keep out

intruders, buried in the dust just a few fragile paces ahead of them, or perhaps they're just

lucky. And the politician from the legislatures comes stepping out after them, wiping the sweat from

their brow.

Perhaps they're not so watchful, or they're not so lucky, because they take a step forwards,

hands on hips, as if to show us that they're the one in charge of all of this.

The politician says something stupid, like...

Uh, uh, good morning!

People often don't know what to make of Gage and I.

They start thinking, can we really be as young as we look?

Young, wild, gangly things, ragged and filthy, living amongst the bones. Shouldn't we be in school?

...