I can hear the trees shifting, as the summer’s warm air travels though their palms. I can hear myself think. I am thinking how I would enjoy living my life just like this: worshiping with Africans, dancing with Zulus, and laying on a chaise lounge under a beach umbrella by the pool, writing as my son jumps in and out of the water. I had thoughts of Boston. I wondered if my boys were all right. I wondered if anyone was shot. I squeezed my eyes shut and spoke to myself, saying, “Leave the boys in Boston.” But then I remembered the three boys I saw yesterday, inhaling glue.