Outside the door, lurking in the shadows, is a terrorist. Is that the wrong description? Outside that door, taking shelter in the shadows, is a freedom fighter. I haven’t got this right. Outside, waiting in the shadows, is a hostile militant. Are words no more than waving, wavering flags? Outside your door, watchful in the shadows, is a guerrilla warrior. God help me. Outside, defying every shadow, stands a martyr. I saw his face. No words can help me now. Just outside the door, lost in shadows, is a child who looks like mine. One word for you. Outside my door, his hand too steady, his eyes too hard is a boy who looks like your son, too. I open the door. Come in, I say. Come in and eat with us. The child steps in and carefully, at my door, takes off his shoes.