“Enough already. Enough with that Waxman of yours,” I yelled at him. “Enough with going on a mission whenever something in your life goes wrong.”

“You don’t get to tell me how to live, you hear? No one does.”

“Go conquer China for all I care,” I said. “You’re burning through these years trying to escape them.”

“You have no idea—” he yelled and waved his weapon, then tripped, swayed unsteadily for a few moments and fell to his knees. I leaped forward and caught him with both hands a moment before his face hit the floor.

“Bring a chair!” I yelled to Dad who was hesitantly pacing toward us. “Come on, hurry up,” I called out and slid the weapon strap off Grandpa’s shoulder. Dad brought over a dirty plastic chair from across the roof.

“Hold his back,” I told Dad, who still seemed confused. We heaved him up onto the chair. Grandpa’s neck tilted sideward and his hands went limp. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“I’ve had enough,” he mumbled between garbled words.

“You can’t just give up,” I told him, supporting his neck so he wouldn’t hit his head against the backrest.

“An eighty-year-old man can do whatever he wants,” he declared with a feeble voice.

“You really can’t,” I replied. “You’re not allowed. Gourevitch would miss you too much.”

I think I saw a flicker of a smile, but I can’t say for sure.

We barely managed to get him down the stairs. His legs kept giving way. He was heavy, a lot heavier than he looked. I put him into bed, peeled off his uniform, and yanked off his boots. I covered him with a blanket while Dad looked at us from the corner of the room. Then I stood beside the bed, my gaze fixed on his chest, making sure he was breathing. Only after he started snoring did I allow myself a deep breath.

Dad and I pulled shifts looking after Grandpa, switching every three hours. One of us was always at his bedside, making sure he wouldn’t try to make a run for it or work himself into a heart attack. I don’t think we exchanged a single word that entire day. Grandpa didn’t get up even once, and seemed pretty relaxed for an old man who only a few hours ago had threatened a ground invasion into Gaza.

At about ten P.M. I finished my shift and came out into the living room. Dad was sitting in the white armchair, staring at the dark TV screen.

I took a glass of water from the kitchen and sat down beside him. Grandpa’s weapon lay on the table.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I couldn’t, I mean, that moment, I just …”

“I didn’t know what to do either,” I said.