The approaching tragedy pulls us; like ants to a flame, we are drawn... We arrive on a smoky summer day in Southern California, with the temperature hovering around the mid-70s. The air is filled with the scents of eucalyptus and flowers orange tree. These obvious good smells are mixed with background odors that are not so good... odors that are obviously part of this mist that surrounds us and affects everything. It is August 1961. We, the observers, are in the backyard of a small, light green, two-bedroom, one-bath, 800-square-foot starter home. It's a typical lazy Monday morning, mostly quiet, with the husbands at work and their wives busy attending to their household chores. You can hear the occasional car and truck driving past, but the sound is muffled, like at the other end of a long tunnel. A huge walnut tree with powerful branches that stretch to cover almost the entire backyard and easily stands 100 feet tall is the centerpiece of this serene scene. Under the branches of the walnut tree which protect from the sun is a large wooden picnic table, where two boys are sitting; one is three years old and the other a little less than two years old. The two boys are dressed the same: swimsuit, t-shirt and bare feet. They both have short blond hair and hazel eyes like their father. They have the charm that young boys everywhere share; they project purity and innocence and probably gathered here to talk about toys, swimming pools, or maybe forts they can build to fight off imaginary Indians. The older boy suddenly jumps up and quickly walks over to a large homemade brick barbecue grill twenty feet away, to retrieve something we can't really see. We move closer to get a better look at this object and see that I...... middle of paper...... the car is strangely silent, except for a soft, mournful melody coming from the radio; Crazy for Patsy Cline. In the back seat, Mike sits and broods. He knows he is very sick, but he is also very angry. Mike is obsessed with getting his brother to the hospital by ambulance. That he could travel in style, with the siren on. On the other hand, he has to make the same trip by car… a dull, dull (and silent) car. No one will look at him as he speeds past. He doesn't even hear a siren like in an ambulance. Mike thinks a lot about his brother. He always did, but not in the way you might think. His thoughts are darker and more sinister than those of a three-year-old child. He does not feel pity for Ger, as he seems incapable of feeling this emotion. Mike's thoughts are much more primitive and basic: "How can I kill him next time ??”