The snow drifts quietly past the boy's window, accumulating on the panes and the sill outside, nearly covering the glass in a curtain of ice. The snow has been falling and dampening the sounds of the world for several hours now. The boy rolls over onto his back and sits up as he pulls the blankets under himself and piles up the pillows behind his head so that he may watch the snow through the window.

How silent.

He sits quietly, enjoying the warmth of his bed, grateful that he is not outside. Finally he slips out from beneath his covers, letting his feet rest on the cold wooden floorboards before he stands. His bright, unkempt blonde hair falls over his eyes and he reaches up and brushes it away. Tiptoeing silently, so as not to disturb his sleeping parents below, he makes his way to the window and looks out. The normally mud-caked olive drab of the armored jeeps and tanks is covered by a thick veil of snow. The boy breathes on the glass and writes his name in the fog.

It is a better place when the snow has fallen.

A shiver crawls over his soft white skin and he steps to his closet to find a sweater. As he begins to pull the sweater off the hanger, he slips over to the window to gaze out again. He sees four soldiers in heavy black boots treading through the snow towards his house, the sun reflecting off the cold steel of their rifle barrels. The boy feels his stomach go hollow inside and he grips the hanger in fear and his breath comes in short gasps that barely fill his lungs. The wooden door downstairs is splintered and tossed crazily off its hinges by the butt of a soldier's rifle. The boy pulls his arms about himself.

Why? What did I do? Leave me alone. Not me. Not me. Maybe they have the wrong house. The wrong people. Don't take me. Take someone else. Take Aaron. It was so quiet. Why do soldiers do this? I don't want to be like the others. Dead. Like Michael and David and their parents lying on the side of the road, splashed by mud until someone came to bury them. Please, God, please.

A thousand thoughts in a few seconds.

The screams of his parents reach his ears as they are pulled out of bed; startled, cold, afraid of the unfamiliar hands that grab and scrape and suppress their sounds. The boy tries to yell to them but the sound stays in his throat. A pair of heavy black boots comes pounding up the bare wooden stairs, leaving behind bits of snow that quickly turn to puddles of water. The boy turns away and falls to his knees. A large pair of cold and coarse hands grab him under the arms and carry him heavily down the stairs, bruising his bare skin.

Everything is a blur.

The kitchen, the desk, the painting, the books, the doorway. They all flash by in a moment. He sees his parents standing in the snow, their lips trembling and their hands behind their heads. The boy is thrown beside them and his hands are placed behind his head.

How cold it is outside.

No one looks out any windows, no one opens any doors, the town is lifeless. The boy's lip is cut. His hair is turned dark on the sides by sweat and it is falling over his face. A tear swells in his brown eyes, then slips silently down his smooth face. Tear after tear rolls down his cheeks. All of them leave a shining streak. The soldiers raise their rifles and a command is barked. The three rifles snap and kick as one, their sound puncturing the morning air. A bullet drills a small red hole in the boy's forehead. His legs crumple. He lies in the soft white snow, a vivid red halo forming about his head.n