Paint splattered the field of battle.
“It used to be different,” he said.
“Get your mask on, grandpa,” a child said.
He ignored the kid, pacing onto the field. Trees stood with splashes of pink and purple and orange paint on them. He looked at the gun in his hands. It looked like a toy to him. It was a toy. This was what kids thought was fun these days?
He turned to return to his grandson and froze.
A scraggly white beard covered his face and most of his hair had fallen out, but Yonnie would have recognized that man anywhere from the scar down his cheek and missing left eye.
The two men strode toward each other, forgetting their grandchildren. In arm’s reach, they dropped their toy guns, each pulling out handguns with enough power to shatter the trees the paint now decorated.
“We meet again,” Yonnie said.
“Let’s finish this, old man.”
“Can you aim with one eye?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”