He reluctantly tore his gaze away from the scene on the street and answered: “There’s been no signal all day. It’ll probably always be like this during offensives.” He paused with a sudden thought. “Good God, it feels like this is the war I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“This is all so scary Dad.”

“Of course,” he said, moving away from the window and heading toward a still-vacant section of wall. “Did you see the body down there? Was he young?” He fished a black marker out of his pocket, drew a circle and wrote something inside. He then drew arrows to it from two other circles nearby and a long, dotted line across the wall from a circle in the other corner.

Dad added something to the circle. “You don’t need to worry about me. I barely ever leave the house, the shops are all closed, they’ve raided the slot machines to build up checkpoint barricades. Where am I supposed to go?”

And you, of course, don’t you worry about me, Dad.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“You didn’t bring any beer, did you? Whisky?”

“No, and I won’t in the future either.”

He nodded in disappointment.

“In that case, how about this? Could you pop out for some white paint? I need a litre tin of matte white paint. Or a spray can, but a tin is better.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“Just go!” he said, stamping his foot. “I need to kill off a character! I’m sick of her. She’ll be killed by a shell, and the rest I’ll paint over.” He rushed over to the opposite wall and tapped his finger on the circle. “Just bring me the white paint!”

I bit my lip. “Dad, there’s a war going on! It’s scary to go out on the streets! And you have this whole soap opera going on? You want me to walk out there through the bombs to bring you your stupid paint?!” I said none of that, of course. It was pointless. “Like firing peas at a wall,” that’s what Grandma used to say. God, I’ve even started talking like them.

“I’ll go later,” I said, backing out of the room.

He scowled.

“Oh, don’t bother then. I won’t ever ask you for anything else.”

And he turned away.

I went into the kitchen. I repeatedly stabbed at the wooden chopping board with a kitchen knife. “I’ve got to leave, I’ve got to leave,” I told myself over and over. “I have to get out of here.”