In 1917, a ten-year-old boy sold newspapers on a busy city street. Now a grown man, he contemplates this heart-wrenching experience. He grew up poor. Though his family’s house was rundown and small, they were grateful to have each other. In the early mornings, the boy buys bread for his family from a local baker. The man sells slices that have fallen on the floor at a discounted price, and he calls them “chicken bread.” Even so, he makes sure to give the boy the best of the discarded slices. He knows the scraps are really for his family, not their chickens, but he allows the boy to maintain some dignity through the pretense. To increase his sales, the boy wanders around popular spots in the city. He learns to appreciate the warm ugliness of the saloons and whorehouses along with the glittering luxe of the cinemas, ice cream parlors, and gentleman’s clubs. Although the boy marvels at the beauty of the rich, he also resents their gluttony. He watches from behind doorways and curtains as a particular patron of the club sleeps. While working men toil in the heat outside, the fat man slumbers under the ceiling fan. As the war rages on, the headlines get more intense. One morning, the boy shouts breaking news—ten thousand German soldiers dead. Locals smile at the thought. Looking back, the man is devastated at the mass tragedy. How can one celebrate an Allied victory or even bear to condense such a weight of human vitality into that murderous statistic? Ten thousand lives were lost, and everyone around him seemed happy to hear the news. The man recalls going to church the next Sunday. As people around prayed, he thought of the endless suffering outside the parish walls. Even so, he concedes that his life and the life of so many others may be proof of God’s grace. The man acknowledges the soul-crushing pain of that day’s headlines and so many others. At the same time, he relishes the gift of his own life.