Quinny

Quinny’s father lay on the frozen, snow-covered ground bleeding to death from a gunshot wound to his neck. Hours earlier, the storm passed over the White Mountains of East Central Arizona and headed toward New Mexico. With no clouds in the sky, the cold was biting, cutting. Every labored breath froze his lungs. Even the pathetic fire struggled for life. She slowly approached him. “Come with me,” she said. “No, no! I can’t. I can’t leave Quinny.” “It is your time.” “No, please. Not yet. Quinny needs me. Please!” The beating sound of a helicopter’s blades drew his attention away from the woman for just a moment. A spotlight from the helicopter locked on as troops encircled him. When he looked back, she was gone. “He’s bleeding! He’s dying! He needs medical treatment immediately!” said one of the surrounding officers. A handcuff dangled from his wrist like a bracelet, one end attached to nothing but a mystery.