Midsummer, with the sun beating down. The cicadas are annoyingly loud, and the buzzing is so constant I can't tell if I'm the mosquito or the mosquito is me. I pick up the newspaper the grandfathers were reading again. I've already seen it several times.

I'm just staring at the black-and-white photo of a city nightscape tucked in a corner of the paper.

He stands before me, staring at the photo, without even taking a moment to wipe the sweat pouring down his forehead and shoulders. Did he just come from the fields? He should at least wipe off the sweat.

His clenched fists are trembling. What's wrong with him? Is he angry again?