Sometimes, when I was full, and a little interested, I would crawl my way through the kitchen, by the walls, under cabinets, and out of sight to the room where men paid for some confidence to hug their worries and give them voice though slow and slurred it was. They spoke of a brother lost in the war, there or the war between lost brothers, here. Some others, who were tired of bothering with brothers, would, instead, listen to the trumpet player spilling soft keys, sometimes.