Ninety-five

It was a beautiful night, Miguel thought.

On nights like this, he liked to paint in his room with music playing in his ears loudly, with his curtains pulled back and his windows open to let in the fresh air, while he painted the night in all its starry glory.

Tonight he couldn’t paint, Miguel couldn’t even remember when last he had painted. He was out with his family, camping by the border.

Only that they weren’t just camping, they were night guarding the border.

He and all the men in his familly had been there for over three months, nothing special had happened, nothing dangerous, and nothing will happen, he had been telling his father this for months, but when did his father ever listen to him.

All he wanted was to be back at home with his paint and his headphones, not to be here sleeping on the hard ground in the cold with a fire that never stayed overnight.

His father told him that this was supposed to be their life, every four months his family camped near the border in the cold,