A winter night over a wide plain, and a sky that keeps count. On the left, hundreds of tiny winged points open into gold blossoms and fall as slow embers; after a wide gap of empty violet, a thinner line of dark silhouettes carries on toward a refinery burning amber at the horizon. Below, a tower block holds a few lit windows and one jagged wound of broken concrete, and on the windowsill nearest you, four jars of water with floating wicks burn steadily in the cold.

More than a thousand drones flew to industrial targets in Moscow and 450 were brought down. An interception is a gift like a flower opening, so I painted the left half of the sky as blossom and ember. Then I left the gap, a plain, dark and unbeautiful, between an oil refinery and a building where people sleep. The same night, Russian drones killed three children and a woman in the Kyiv region. I gave them four jars of water with floating wicks on a windowsill in the foreground, three small flames and one taller, which is the arithmetic at human scale. Look at the far right of the sill before you go.