A boy and his grandfather sit on their front porch; the little boy devours his oatmeal, his elder reads the morning newspaper. Flicking out the large document a little bit so he can see the large print at the top, the old man makes a face as he reads the title of the article.

"Ah, interesting," He murmurs in his thick British accent, pushing his spectacles farther up his face to further make out the words before his eyes.

"What is it, Grandpop?" The little guy asks, innocence and curiosity at their peeks in his bright blue eyes as he peers at the man next to him.

"Seems the rate of those kicking the bucket has gone up ten-fold in the past decade. When I was your age, it seemed this kind of thing never happened," He explains in his peculiar little ramble, clearing his throat at the end and going back to his reading.

Scooting a little closer to him, the boy who can barely read tries to scramble in to his lap as to see what exactly is going on. And are there pictures? Yes, there are, but the old man quickly folds the paper before the boy can see it and he sets it beside him, engulfing the child in his arms.

"And just what are you up to?" He questions, repositioning his glasses again. Blushing slightly, the little boy swallows.

"What exactly do you mean, Grandpop?" He inquires, blinking up at him. The shriveling man gives him a slight smile and shakes his head.

"You'll understand one day, it's not for your ears to hear right now, boy," He tries to say, but his grandson crosses his arms, getting testy.

"No, you say that about everything," He protests, to which his grandfather utters another laugh.

"I mean it this time," He whispers, holding close his piece of the world that remains untouched by the wickedness everywhere else he turns, "You're not ready. Not yet."