The low, melodious bellow of David’s French horn rang through the battered concrete walls of his room. It was lucky that they were still standing after the long years of war on the streets. The boy takes a breath and plays his scales over again; there was no sheet music or pages to be seen anywhere. David didn’t need them, anyway.

Gunshots barked out the window, cutting in the middle of the music. Shuffling his feet along the floor, David quickly closed the curtains and kept playing; No one would be able to hear him with all the noise going on outside, so he figured he could be louder. 

“¡David-Jose Hisaishi, ven aqui este instante!” His mother calls him downstairs, clearly not pleased. With a sigh, David puts away the slightly corroded horn back into its case. His hand grips the side rail firmly as he descends into the main room of the house. 

“Why do you not trust me on this? I don’t want you to play next to the window when the guerrillas are around, ok?”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“Yes, yes, ‘I forgot’,” Susana, his mother wipes her brow and groans. “Just go and help your brother with the dishes ok?”

“Yes, please!” David's brother, Michi, yells from the kitchen. Then, in the kitchen David walks straight into a chair and yelps, rubbing his knee. Michi chortles at David who's trying not to swear.

“Dude stop doing that, I told you a million times that I can't see crap!”

“Sorry, I forgot," Michi says as he stifles a chuckle

David snorts. “Yeah, because broken kneecaps are so funny.” He stomps over to the sink and feels for the counter, then starts to dry a soup lid that had enough dents to be an old shield. David sighs and dries a mug. “Sorry, I’m just not in the mood.” Another pelting of gunshots could be heard closer to the house. 

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry.” The older brother ruffles David’s raven hair, getting a small laugh out of him. Even though David had been told this wasn’t their real home, it was all he knew, and likely ever would.