I am at Pine Grove sleep away camp, where I had spent summers as a teenager, preparing for war. Jets flying low overhead fire rockets into the distance. We cheer as the missiles whoosh and spiral to their targets. We move out, young soldiers, all less than fifteen. In a large field several teenage soldiers explode a device that releases a smoky fog. It appears to be toxic. At detonation I am hit by its shrapnel. I feel the cardboard splinters penetrate my back, though they do me no real harm. We march back to our starting point. I am walking uphill on the wide trail which leads from the lake to the bunkhouses, weary from the weight of my gear. I walk next to a youngster who is out of shape. He huffs and puffs. He carries a silver-plated toy luger in his hand. Dream recollection ends.