A nun and an Iraq war vet go to a protest rally, each alone, standing off to a side. Each taking in the twang and melodious rise as a rumpled man in the shade begins a duet with his guitar. Taking in the stoic police lined like dominoes on the far side of the blockades, the helicopters buzzing above, and the crackly voice from the speakers urging change, peace, unity.

She’s there among the radicals, the idealists and the enraged. And she thinks: I never should have gotten old. Soon, she might be too tired to wince when she kneels and murmurs “Father” to the pretentious man half her age. She might be too cautious to question America’s blessing of the rich and powerful. But the heat from people crowding close and the smell of sharpies work themselves beneath her habit, reminding her: Blessed are the Peacemakers. Reminding her it is the meek who will inherit the earth. So she’s there. And she sees this man: stiff stance, hands jammed in jeans - afraid to let them out. No sign, no smile, no voice.

He’s there among the signs and fists and agitated American people. Kick-around box-store shoes and a plain white T hide his world of smoke trails and sacrifice. Hide the rows upon rows of proud American boys, the color of hope and camouflage. Hide the too-wise eyes of that boy with the fly-away hair, eyes reflecting his doubt before he pulled the trigger to save his own. He’s there, staring at his shoes, at the chewing gum, at the million colored leaflets tramped under foot. If these people looked into his eyes, they would see the confusion of a frozen man, because you can not run when the monster is inside.

So he’s there. And he sees this nun. Bright eyes between weathered folds of skin. Crisp black and white habit with no room for grey. Sticking out like one lone figure the world forgot to color in. Her mouth opens - she’s across the road from him, chants and signs streaming between - and he hears the whisper in his ear: This is hope.