“Speaking of easy,” said Belua, pointing to the screen, “Remember that Stephen kid you shot a few years back?”

      “The one with the hitting dad?”

      “Yes. A new angle may have opened up for us. The father's not hitting as much anymore since the incident with the neighbor, but he is still saying some awful things to the kid. We need to check it out.”

      “I see,” said Sicarius. “Isn't it funny how they try to correct the symptom, but totally ignore the root of the problem? That same arrow that made the father hit is still jammed in there making him say hateful things.” He shook his scaly head. “They sure are pathetic.” He stood behind Belua and quietly studied the screen.

      Belua was rapidly paging through the monitor screens. Page after page of people monitored, analyzed, and plotted against. “It's interesting to see things develop,” he said. “You go out and make some hits, and I can see the landscape start to alter even before you get back.”

      “I know.” Sicarius pointed to an area at the top of the screen. “Go to the overview.”

      Belua switched to another screen. Here they could see the whole population at once. Each person was represented by a colored symbol and beside symbol was a code. Sicarius leaned over Belua and studied the screen carefully.

      “Yes. I believe with a few more rounds of precision hits we may have this area pacified.” He straightened back up. “That'll be a good day, too. Our workload will be reduced. We may even be reassigned.”

      “Is that how it was when you won that bow?”

      “Oh, yes. Being a good shot is not just a matter of accuracy. It's more a matter of picking your targets. And a sense of timing.” Sicarius patted the back of Belua's chair. “Yes. Pacify an area and the big boss gets real happy.”

      “I'd like that,” said Belua. “You know I have some catching up to do.”

      Sicarius laughed. “Yes, I know. That's another reason they put you with me. But don't worry. Things will turn out well for us.” Sicarius looked over the screen one more time. “All right. Let's get up a quick list of new targets, then I'll grab some more arrows and we'll head out. There's a lot to be done.” 

      The air was filled with the chaotic chatter and laughter of children as the school bus pulled up and stopped at the middle house of the last street of the neighborhood. The door opened and Stephen and two other eleven year olds jumped out laughing happily. Stephen waved as the bus pulled away, then he waved to the two other kids who were headed down the street. He shifted the book bag on his back and ran toward the front door of his house. In his hand was a hand drawn picture with a ribbon pinned to the upper right corner. He tore the front door open and dashed inside.

      “Mom!” he called excitedly. “Mom, guess what?”

      “Whoa!” said Stephen's father. He was sitting in a chair in front of the TV. A sports newscaster's voice could be heard. Smiling, he turned to face Stephen. “What's all the ruckus about?”

      “Oh, hi Daddy,” said Stephen, coming to a stop in the living room. “What are you doing home?”

      “We had a meeting and they let us go early.” The smile left Stephen's father's face and his eyebrows knit with mock suspicion. “Why? Don't you like having me home early?”

      “No, it's not that,” Stephen said. “It's just that you're usually not here when I get home.” He craned his neck, trying to see into the kitchen. “Where's mom?”

      “She went to the store.” Stephen's father turned in his chair to face the TV again. He pointed to the screen and the smile returned to his face. “Hey, only two more weeks until football season starts!”

      “Really? Cool!” said Stephen. He looked at the TV for a few moments, and then started for his room.

      “What've you got there?”

      Stephen turned and saw his father pointing to his picture. “Oh, uh, it's a picture I drew that was in a contest.”

      “An art contest? Let's see it.”

      Stephen walked over and handed the picture to his father. “My art teacher gave me a form for you to sign. She wants to put me in an after school program for artistic students.”

      Stephen's father studied the picture for a few moments. “Hmm. After school? You can't do that. Football camp starts next week. It was like pulling teeth to get you signed up with the right team, because you're so small.” He handed the picture back to Stephen. “Besides,” he smiled, “all artists are sissies. You don't want to be like that.”

      The arrow struck the boy's back like a hammer blow. It lodged deep right next to the other one. Stephen shuddered in his heart. He took the picture from his father and started toward his room.

      “Where are you going?” asked the father.

      “I've got homework.”

      “Okay. Good.”

      Stephen walked slowly to his bedroom. He entered the room and shut the door behind him. He shrugged his shoulders and let the book bag slide off of his back and onto the bed. He sat down and held the picture in front of him. He studied it- the lion crouched in the brush in the foreground on the right, watching the zebras feeding in the open grassy field, the trees and mountain range beyond, the detail, the proportion, the shading. He fingered the blue ribbon with his thumb and an emotion, hot and acidic, began to rise from within his heart. He clenched his teeth in anger and suddenly ripped the drawing in two. He quickly put the two halves together and tore it again. Stephen continued the destruction, tears forming in his eyes. He tore at the paper furiously until the pieces were too small and his anger was spent. He stared for a moment at the pieces of the winning drawing in the 6^th grade art contest, scattered on the floor, then he buried his face in his pillow and cried bitterly. 

      Outside Stephen's home the two demons were preparing to leave. Sicarius was stringing another arrow as Belua was checking the list.

      “Weren't there a couple more to hit on this street?” asked Sicarius.

      “Yes, and one of them is another kid,” said Belua. “It's funny that we shoot so many kids. I wouldn't think they'd be much of a threat.”

      “They aren't much of a threat as kids, but their potential is huge. Take that boy, Stephen. He's got all the earmarks of a real troublemaker. He needs to be shut down. If we can keep those types down, then our work will always be easy.”

      They reached the sidewalk and headed down the street. Belua looked up from the list. “It seems odd that this area may soon be pacified when there are so many churches here.”

      “It's not so odd,” said Sicarius. “Many of them eliminate themselves from the fight. Some get focused on side issues. Others squelch moves of the Spirit. The rest of them, the few that remain, can be dealt with in a number of ways. That's where I come in. A few well-placed shots of lust or greed can destroy the leadership. A few shots of offence or unforgiveness can split a church, making them both less effective. And for hell's sake, if you ever hear them using the “R” word, especially in prayer, then you start shooting at anything and everything!”

      “Reviv…”

      “Don't say it!” snapped Sicarius, clapping his hand over Belua's mouth. “Don't even say it.” Sicarius lowered his hand again. “You just bring them down if they start talking about it. We can call in support from all points if that one starts taking root.”

      “It's strange,” Belua said after a few moments. “On one hand, we seem to be able to deal with anything. But on the other hand, we seem to live with the threat of losing everything in short notice.”

      “It all depends on their focus.” Sicarius made a sweeping gesture with his arms. “We run this world system. It's ours- legally. And as long as no one is asking for help from above, then we can keep everything oppressed with ease. But they have a legal right, too, and that is to ask for intercession. That's when things get dicey. If you get a whole lot of kneelers getting worked up, forgetting themselves and seeking God, then before you know it we are up to our eyeballs in angels and then we have a real fight on our hands. Remember, there are twice as many of them as there are of us.”

      “I guess I would get a bow then,” said Belua.

      “Believe me, you don't want a bow under those circumstances,” said Sicarius.

      They walked quietly for a few moments, each lost in their own thought. By now they were in another section of town. They approached an apartment building and could hear shouting inside. Belua pointed up toward one of the apartments.

      “I can hear our next targets now.”

      Sicarius nodded. “Let's go up and take a look.” 

      *     *     * 

      It was 6:30pm when Stephen's parents arrived at his grandmother's house. The grandmother, Stephen's maternal, was preparing dinner as they knocked and came in.

      “Hi, Ma!” said Stephen's mother. “We're here.”

      “Well, hello!” Stephen's grandmother came out from the kitchen and hugged them both. “Where's Stephen?”

      “He's coming,” said Stephen's mother. “He's working on a project with another student and had to get something at the library.”

      “Besides,” said Stephen's father, “you know the teenager's code of ethics: never be on time to any event you've been told to attend.”

      “Oh, now…” Stephen's mother started to say. She turned to Stephen's grandmother. “Ma, can I give you a hand?” The two ladies started for the kitchen and Stephen's father sat down on the couch and switched on the TV.

      “Would you like something to drink, Mel?” Stephen's grandmother called. “I've got iced tea.”

      “That'd be good,” he said, switching through the channels. Stephen's mother brought it to him, setting it on a coaster on the end table. He didn't look up from the television.

      About twenty minutes later the dinner was ready. The three were just preparing to sit down at the table when Stephen came in. He was wearing torn and faded jeans and his hair was long and unkempt. He also smelled of cigarette smoke from close up. He kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes down at the carpet. He said nothing as he came in.

      “Oh, Stephen!” said his grandmother. “You're here!” She crossed the room and gave him a hug. “Just in time, too. We were just getting ready to sit down.”

      “Hi, Grandma.”

      “Yeah,” mumbled Stephen's father, “just in time to eat. Never in time to help out.”

      Stephen glanced at him then looked back down at the carpet shaking his head.

      “Well, isn't it amazing?” said Stephen's grandmother. “You're driving now, and you're a senior in high school! Your mother tells me your working on a project.”

      “Yes.” He looked up at her. “That's why I was late. I told my partner that I'd run by the library and get a book for us. I had to drop it by his house.”

      “Well, come and sit down and tell me all about it.”

      “I need to wash my hands first.” Stephen disappeared down the hall and the others sat down at the table.

      “He always has an excuse. He probably just wanted to go have a smoke with his friends,” said Stephen's father.

      “Now, stop that,” said Stephen's mother. “I'm glad he's working with this new kid on this project. It's certainly an improvement over those kids he usually hangs out with.” Stephen's mother turned in her chair. “Ma, I'm so worried about him. He's been running with such a bad crowd.”

      “Everyone needs acceptance,” said Stephen's grandmother, glancing at Stephen's father. “Especially teens. It's a powerful drive. A person will respond to anyone who accepts them.”

      “I would think that being 'acceptable' is part of the solution,” said Stephen's father.

      “Well, you should be happy with this new kid,” said Stephen's mother. “He comes from a good family.”

      “And he's on the varsity football team. He has a future. I'm hoping some of that will rub off on Stephen,” said Stephen's father, as they all sat down at the table. He put a napkin on his lap. “A parent could be proud to have a kid on the varsity football team.”

      The arrow flew swiftly and silently across the table, through the living room, and into the hall where Stephen stood, hesitating as he listened to his father's voice. It struck him hard in the chest. Stephen clenched his teeth against the burning sting that began to fill his heart. He stood there quietly for a few moments, unsure of what to do. The next voice he heard was his grandmother's.

      “Well, I suppose we should say grace now. I wonder what's keeping Stephen?”

      “Stephen?” called his mother.

      Stephen took a deep breath as he decided his course of action. He stepped out from the hall and went to the living room.

      “There you are,” said Stephen's mother. “Come sit down. We're about to say grace.”

      “I can't, Mom. I've got to go. There's another important paper I forgot to drop off with my partner.”

      “Can't you give it to him tomorrow?”

      “No. He's got to work on it tonight.”

      “You need to eat something,” said Stephen's grandmother. “I can wrap your dinner and you can take it with you, if you like.”

      “No, thanks, Grandma.”

      “Sit down!” snapped Stephen's father. “Don't act so ungrateful! You can eat with us, then go.” He stared at Stephen until Stephen reluctantly sat down, keeping his eyes to the floor. “Typical teenager,” the father grumbled, “always caring more for their friends than for their own family.”

      Grace was said and the food was passed around. Stephen took as little as he could without actually taking nothing, and ate as slowly as he could without actually not eating it. What little he ate he found to be good, but the idea of eating a meal at the same table as his father seemed grotesquely unnatural and filled him with loathing. He answered his grandmother's polite questions with as few words as possible, trying hard not to sound rude to her.

      “Do you like your classes this year?” asked Stephen's grandmother.

      “I guess so. They're not very hard.”

      “Stephen says he's going to make a fresh start this year,” said Stephen's mother. “Good grades all the way through. Right, Stephen?”

      “Yes, ma'am.”

      Stephen's grandmother asked him a few other questions about his senior year in high school and Stephen continued to offer little. His father began to chime in with his own answers and before long was on a diatribe comparing his own school years. It was the usual blend of “…when I was his age…” and “…best years of his life…” and “…wasted opportunities…”and the like. Stephen was glad for the focus of concentration to be shifted away from him. He drifted away in his own thoughts, finding it easy to tune his father out. He'd heard the speech many times before.