when you ask her about the war, she doesn't talk about the war. 
she talks about shoes. 
"pa could only afford one pair," she says. "real ugly, those shoes. smelled like eggs. squished when i walk. hated them with every piece of me, tried to burn them once. didn't, of course. would've been a waste of money." 
she points to your shoes, skechers from a birthday present. 
"when everyone started running, i left my shoes behind. left most of everything behind. those are sure nice shoes. running kind, fast kind, easy to put on in a pinch. the grip's not so great, especially for climbing." 
she shows off her shoes. thick-soled leather boots. waterproof, sturdy, a zipper up the side. she wears them indoors. she wears them everywhere. 
"good shoes carry you everywhere," she says. "know that heading to the city would've been way better without bare feet." 

when you ask him about the war, he doesn't talk about the war. 
he cooks, instead. mashed potatoes, golden with butter and cream, loaded high in a pepper-dusted mountain on your plate. more than you can eat. you tell him such, and he shrugs. "too much food's better than too little food." 
there are boxes of potato flakes in the back of his pantry. there are jars of salt, peanut butter, canned beans, enough bottled water to last a lifetime. there is a portable gas stove shoved under the shelves. 
"eat up," he tells you. you do. he watches you, eyes boring into your skull. he relaxes only when you lick up the last scrap. 
"good isn't it?" you agree. "better than rats. everything's better than rats. they barely had any meat on them either, but the lice added a nice crunch. once, my brother skewered a load of roaches. ate them fried on a stick. we lived on those things and more." he flashes a golden tooth. "there was a leather belt we passed around. chewing on it took the edge of the appetite away, or so we said." 

when you ask the child about the war, she doesn't talk about the war. 
she shows you her stuffed duck. it's a faded, tattered thing, seams on the verge of splitting. 
"it's my good luck charm," she tells you. "i brought it with me to the basement and we lived, so it's gotta be good luck." she shows you a thin stitched-up rip down a wing. "this is where quacky got hurt. but mommy told me to just pray over it to get it better. it worked." 
"i spent about a week fixing that old thing up," the mother tells you. there is a tan line around her fourth finger she still fidgets with. "i got some thread from old clothes and used up a candle a neighbor owed me." 
you ask if it was worh it. "it's good luck, isn't it?" her smile is brittle as glass, ornament fragile, cracked to the point of shattering. "good luck only gets you so far, but any of it is a welcomed miracle any day." 

you stop asking about the war. 
you've heard enough about it.