\nFifteen years on the force, ten as the county sheriff, I thought I\u2019ve seen the grisly worst. Mostly ranch accidents. Hooves and horns through skulls, barbed wire through most everything, I got a stomach lined with steel, a gag reflex that doesn\u2019t gag. And here I am, bent over, OJ, eggs, biscuits and gravy on their way out.\n<\/p>\n
\nSarah, my deputy, she\u2019s hurling, too. Side by side, buckled over, we\u2019re retching, flinging spittle and digested food from the griddle off our hands. Looking like newbs is what we are, as if we\u2019ve never seen death days after. But this gruesome display defies physics and my iron constitution.\n<\/p>\n
\nThis ain\u2019t no accident.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe victim is a woman, blonde, in her twenties or thirties. She\u2019s wearing urban-camouflaged fatigues, smattered with blood and her insides. Her face unrecognizable. Her body size and type indeterminable. She\u2019s an amoeba of contorted body, crushed from a fall. From where? That\u2019s what Sarah and I got to figure out.\n<\/p>\n
\nStanding, I block the sweltering sun with my hand and look around. Not a building nor high ground in sight. Brown prairie grass and big Montana sky stretch to the horizons.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSomeone could have dumped her here, George.\u201d Sarah swats at a magpie with her cowboy hat, her long black hair blowing in the wind. The magpie chatters and flutters a few feet away. The flies, too many to do anything about, feast.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNaw.\u201d I scan the ranch land, inhaling whiffs of fetid air. \u201cNo tire marks anywhere.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCould have done it by horse.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCould have, and a cumbersome transport that\u2019d have been, but heck, look at that.\u201d I point to where the woman\u2019s parts lie scattered. \u201cThere\u2019s a crater the size of a buffalo wallow, mostly dirt and such. She fell right here. I\u2019m sure of that\u2026only that.\u201d I crane my neck up at the endless blue above, not a wisp of white anywhere. \u201cAn angel in God\u2019s Country.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nSarah packs a can of Copenhagen and pops a pinch in her mouth, never letting that badge or her condo fool anyone. She\u2019s cowgirl, through and through. Raised on a ranch, her adopted ma and pa still live on that ranch. And get her on that ranch? She outrides, out-ropes, out-wrangles damn anybody. Fine deputy, too.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe spits black juice on the ground. \u201cWhat\u2019s an angel doing without wings?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDying is what.\u201d I shake my head. \u201cAwful way to go. Tossed from a plane or helicopter, I reckon. Only thing makes sense.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou recognize them fatigues?\u201d Sarah creeps to the body.\n<\/p>\n
\nI follow, careful not to step where blood has sprayed. Grass crunches under each step. My nose is now used to the smell of decay, and I catch hints of the prairie with the wind, a dry, sweet smell, like coriander. The flute-like call of a western meadowlark warbles nearby. I crouch for a closer look, feeling all my forty years, and ignore the tickle of flies on my nose, then ear, then cheek, their buzz a grating constant of my job. \u201cThey\u2019re for urban warfare. Anyone with a credit card can order them online. But look here.\u201d I point to a small green flag with six yellow stars sewn onto her breast pocket. \u201cYou recognize that flag?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNew to me,\u201d Sarah says with a smirk I can\u2019t place. I\u2019m about to ask why the grin, then it vanishes as if it never before existed, like a rainbow after the air dries out. Her eyes are misty, a thousand yards away. It’s the look she gets when admiring a newborn foal.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou all right there?\u201d I snap a picture of the flag with my phone.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe sniffles and wipes her eyes. \u201cSometimes this job just gets to me. It burrows under my skin. Makes me want to shed it.\u201d She swallows, gutting tobacco spit.\n<\/p>\n
\nHer answer doesn\u2019t sit right. It tastes off because of that subtle smile seconds before her tears swell.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI know the feeling.\u201d I look toward the heavens from where the woman fell. \u201cYou know where to next.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nSarah stands and walks to our two ATVs, which we rode in on from an overgrown dirt road that\u2019s not worthy of a name or map. \u201cAirport.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\n
\nSarah and I are sitting in the office of Jed, the airport manager. The heads of a deer and a pronghorn stare at us from the wall. The room smells of a cigar. Atop a liquor cabinet sits a bull skull next to a bottle of bourbon that\u2019s half-full, rather half-empty.\n<\/p>\n
\nJed strolls in, tosses his hat on his desk, and says in a booming voice as loud as his personality, \u201cGeorge and Sarah, sight for sore eyes! What brings you to my airport?\u201d Jed, with his boots, rodeo belt buckle, and blue flannel stretched over a whiskey gut, looks like he shops where most males this side of the country shop.\n<\/p>\n
\nI stand and give him a Montanan handshake, firm and honest. Sarah stays sitting, her mind somewhere else, where it’s been all day.\n<\/p>\n
\nJed goes to the liquor cabinet. \u201cWant an afternoon pick-me-up?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nSarah shakes her head.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJed,\u201d I say, \u201cyou know damn well I\u2019ve been off the sauce for years.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nJed smiles as toothy as the Cheshire Cat. \u201cYou were a lot funner on it.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHell-raiser\u2019s what I was. Ain\u2019t no fun in that.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nAll booze got me were headaches, heartache, and grief, the razor-sharp kind. With that thought, I get that nausea that comes a-swirling whenever I think of Billy, my son. He\u2019d be eighteen now. Perhaps, is<\/em> eighteen. I doubt it. He and my wife Laura vanished fifteen years ago, without a crumb left behind. She had run off for Missoula by then, told me not to follow until sober-dry.\n<\/p>\n \nThis dumbass stayed wet, then they went missing. Their case froze cold a year later. That\u2019s why I sought the badge, thought it\u2019d get me the skills needed to find them. Nope.\n<\/p>\n \nI eye the bourbon longer than I should, then take a seat.\n<\/p>\n \nJed pours himself a drink, plops two rocks in the tumbler, and plops himself into his black leather chair. He leans back, hands laced behind his head. \u201cWhat can I do you two for?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGotta look at your flight logs. See who\u2019s been up the last week.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nJed laughs. \u201cI\u2019ll save you trouble and tell you who\u2019s gone on up. We\u2019re bout as slow as a turtle on duct tape.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGo and tell us, Jed. But we still gonna check.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nJed sips from his tumbler, swishes, and holds up a finger.\n<\/p>\n \nSarah grimaces. \u201cWhat\u2019s that, Jed?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThat\u2019s how many have taken to our friendly skies these past two weeks.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI sit up straight. \u201cOne? That\u2019s it?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nJed nods. \u201cAs I said, a turtle.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWho\u2019s the pilot?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nJed smiles, leans on back. \u201cYou\u2019re staring at him.\u201c\n<\/p>\n \nSarah scoffs. \u201cWhat\u2019s the freaking point of an airport?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGo ask your dutiful public servants of the County Commission,\u201d Jed says, leaving out he\u2019s one of the three commissioners.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNever mind that,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat about flight paths? Can we see if any planes or helicopters have flown nearby?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThat\u2019s public. You can get that on the World Wide Web.\u201d Jed types on his MacBook and swivels it around for us to view the screen. A map of Montana shows, dotted with silhouettes of little airplanes. \u201cSee.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThis is now?\u201d I ask.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cUh, huh.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat about from last week on?\u201d I say.\n<\/p>\n \nHe swivels back his Mac, takes a sip, looks at me, and lifts his glass. \u201cCome on, George. Live a little.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI sigh. \u201cAsshole.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHe chuckles, types and clicks, and shows us the result. Red lines, labeled with letters and numerals, streak across our great state.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHow do you zoom to one spot?\u201d I ask.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThe trackpad.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI zoom to where the woman landed. Nada. No red lines.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cCan you take us up?\u201d I asked.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhen?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHow bout now?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nJed rattles the ice cubes in his otherwise empty glass. \u201cNot sure if the FAA would like it.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI ain\u2019t telling,\u201d I say.\n<\/p>\n \nSarah looks at her phone, pockets it, and taps her foot on the ground. \u201cYou sure that\u2019s a good idea?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou got a fear of flying?\u201d I\u2019m peeved though trying not to show it. While ranked a deputy, I consider her my partner. We\u2019re supposed to know each other inside and out. Hell, she knows all my failings, as a dad, as a husband, as anything besides this job. My job\u2019s my life, all that remains of it, anyhow. And her failings? Little. A tall drink of beautiful, she\u2019s a catch for anyone in the market. She bats in the other league, and we\u2019re in the sticks, so her prospects for a girlfriend are near zilch. Why doesn\u2019t she move to Bozeman or Missoula? The ranch, she says. Secrets, I say. She\u2019s got them. That alone about her chafes me.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat I got is a fear of drunk pilots,\u201d she says.\n<\/p>\n \nI get her sentiment, but time ticks fast when solving a murder.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAh, heck,\u201d Jed says, swatting the air. \u201cThis is my first drink of the day.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI toss him a breathalyzer.\n<\/p>\n \nPracticed, he blows until he hears the beep. He looks at it and smiles. \u201c.02.\u201d He pats his stomach. \u201cI got room for another.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNot the time though. Let’s go.\u201d I get up.\n<\/p>\n \nSarah looks at her phone again, then up at me. \u201cSheriff, what sense does it make to fly over?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nSheriff? She only addresses me as sheriff when something chaps her hide. She\u2019s got a point, procedurally, anyhow. The coroner already carted off the body, but I\u2019m not going up there for the evidence. Sometimes a diamond is a square until you look at it from a different perspective. I\u2019m A-okay with her disagreeing, need her to sometimes; I can be a blockhead. What I don\u2019t like is the public appearance that the law\u2019s not walking in lockstep. And in this rural county, we\u2019re all the law it\u2019s got.\n<\/p>\n \nI squint my eyes at her, cocking my head, my telltale sign I\u2019m not pleased.\n<\/p>\n \nSarah huffs and stands. Most days, Sarah\u2019s as cool as a winter creek. Something ain\u2019t right.\n<\/p>\n \n \nWe\u2019re chugging along, several thousand feet up, cruising altitude for the Cessna, a four-seater. I\u2019m upfront next to Jed. Sarah sits in the back alone. The sidewalls of the tin can rattle. The interior smells of gasoline and leather. I\u2019ve never flown in a plane so small and don\u2019t like it, got visions of my fiery death dancing in my head. A different perspective, I tell myself.\n<\/p>\n \nThe prairie below is brown velvet that stretches forever. Four trumpeter swans, their slender white bodies meant for the sky, fly in formation and pass underneath a lonely cotton ball of a cloud. Below them, sunshine sparkles off a patchwork of ponds, a birder\u2019s paradise. I used to take Billy there to fish each Sunday, the closest thing to church I ever got. I think the All-mighty approved. Why else did the ponds exist? Damn, I miss my boy and hate myself sick.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAny barf bags?\u201d I say into the mic of my headset.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThe world\u2019s a barf bag.\u201d Jed leans across my lap and pushes open my window. Warm wind rushes in, and the plane tilts to the left. Jed laughs and shoves his window open. The plane evens out, steadies. \u201cI can fly this thing by windows alone!\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cJed,\u201d Sarah says in her headset with that pissed off expression she wears when questioning perps. \u201cThere\u2019s very little to like about you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nJed bellows his baritone laugh. \u201cWe\u2019re coming up to the coordinates in two or so minutes. Damn prairie as far as I can see. Now will you tell me why we\u2019re flying to nowhere?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI turn to Sarah. She\u2019s staring at the home screen of her phone, her leg twitching as if a little motor is inside.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cTexting your girlfriends?\u201d I ask.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou\u2019ve been staring at your phone all day. What\u2019s up, buttercup? I want my deputy back.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cIt\u2019s nothing.\u201d She pockets her phone, takes out a tin of Copenhagen, and starts flicking her wrist to pack it.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI need tall boots for that manure,\u201d I say.\n<\/p>\n \nShe pinches enough tobacco to raise the neck hair of a bull rider, stuffs the wad in her bottom lip, and scowls.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cOkay.\u201d I raise both hands in surrender.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cT minus one minute,\u201d Jed announces. \u201cWhy we\u2019re here? Hell if I know.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWe\u2019re about to fly over a crime scene,\u201d I say.\n<\/p>\n \nJed raises his eyebrows at me. \u201cGive me the gory details.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cIt\u2019s confidential.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThen I\u2019m glad I brought my binoculars.\u201d Jed hawks a loogie out his window. \u201cWish I had my GoPro.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNo use,\u201d I say. \u201cThey\u2019ve cleaned it up.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThen why are\u2014\u201c\n<\/p>\n \nSarah cuts in, \u201cThat\u2019s what I\u2019m saying.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cFor a different perspective,\u201d I say, annoyed. Fact is, I doubt any good will come from this ride. For one, Sarah’s about as effective as a blind eagle right now. Something\u2014I call it intuition\u2014got me up here. I want to trust it.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAnd here we are,\u201d Jed announces.\n<\/p>\n \nOnly yellow police tape, held by wooden stakes below, hints that a woman fell from the sky. It flaps in the wind around the perimeter. In the back of the plane, Sarah presses her nose to her window, then clamors to the other side to gawk. Back to hers, back to the other, she\u2019s a dog between two squirrels in opposite trees.\n<\/p>\n \nI turn. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWe shouldn\u2019t be here.\u201d Her uniform at her armpits runs a darker brown from sweat. \u201cSorry, but I got to do this.\u201d She scrambles up front and grabs the stick, her hat falling off.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat the\u2014\u201c Jed screams.\n<\/p>\n \nI\u2019m first stunned motionless by the insanity of Sarah\u2019s move. I grab her wrists\u2014they\u2019re slick with perspiration\u2014and wrestle her hands off the stick. She\u2019s not letting down, flailing from my grasp before I snatch her arms. I push her to the backseat and use my body to hold her down. I got the weight advantage, but she\u2019s ranch scrappy.\n<\/p>\n \nShe stretches for my gun.\n<\/p>\n \nI grab it first and chuck it in the front seat.\n<\/p>\n \nWho is this woman? Not my deputy, she\u2019s old Yeller gone rabid. I pull my cuffs out and cuff her wrist to the back of the chair.\n<\/p>\n \nShe punches my temple with her free hand. Light blazes my vision like a camera flash, the sensation a reminder of barroom brawls long ago. She hits me again, stinging my ear. I catch her third attempt, readjust my body on top of her, and grab her cuffs. I cuff her free hand to the chair.\n<\/p>\n \nI climb to my seat, panting. \u201cWhat the hell, Sarah!\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nShe spits her chaw up front, smattering us and the windshield with flecks of tacky tobacco.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cJesus, George!\u201d Jed screams at me while Sarah kicks his back seat, again and again. \u201cDon\u2019t the law do no background checks?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nJed needs\u2014check that\u2014deserves an explanation why my deputy tried to kamikaze us. I\u2019m at a loss for words, for anything. I\u2019m sure I look how I feel, bewildered, winded, feeling my age and all of Sarah\u2019s scrap. Nose pressed to the window, breath frosting the glass, I try to buy time.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGeorge!\u201d Jed says, \u201cWhat do you want me to do?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGet out of here!\u201d Sarah screams between grunts and kicks. \u201cGet out of here!\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nAn alarm on her phone goes off, the melodic chime barely audible over her screams and grunts.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGet out of here!\u201d she says.\n<\/p>\n \nBeside Sarah, a crying girl appears. Just like that! Once an empty seat\u2014Presto!\u2014it\u2019s occupied. A toddler. Her face beat red, a vein on her forehead throbbing, she\u2019s wailing. Blonde hair, blue eyes, her semblance to Billy is uncanny. I\u2019ve gone nutso!\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat the\u2014!\u201d Jed slaps the dashboard of instruments and gauges.\n<\/p>\n \nOkay. I\u2019m not the only one.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNo!\u201d Sarah twists her body so her brown cowboy boots are pointed at the girl. \u201cShe should be dead!\u201d She does the unthinkable, kicks the girl with both legs. The girl, maybe twenty-five pounds, soaking wet, careens into the window and thuds her noggin on the glass.\n<\/p>\n \nSarah recoils her legs, a rattler before the strike, her knees almost touching her face.\n<\/p>\n \nI leap back, between the two.\n<\/p>\n \nSarah horse kicks me into the girl, then batters me again, this time my head. What must be one of her boot heels, feels like it, anyhow, rams into my chin. The jarring pain travels up my side jaw and gives me an ice cream headache without the damn ice cream.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cJed, hold her feet!\u201d I scream.\n<\/p>\n \nJed\u2019s on Sarah like a tick on a hound, and I scoop the girl over my seat. Her screams, the poor thing, ring my ears. I\u2019m shushing her, rocking her, telling her all will be right. I don\u2019t believe my words. What the hell? The girl appeared from nowhere. And Sarah expected her, didn\u2019t want us to be here. The dead woman who fell from the sky. Sarah. This girl. The three are connected. How? I ain\u2019t got the faintest.\n<\/p>\n \nJed\u2019s upfront again, piloting our bird.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cTake us back,\u201d I say.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNo kidding!\u201d He glances at me. \u2018You\u2019re bleeding.\u201d He wipes blood from his lip that\u2019s grown in size.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou, too.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nSarah keeps kicking his seat. \u201cThis girl\u2019s dangerous! You gotta believe me! Dangerous, a war criminal!\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cShe\u2019s a toddler!\u201d I scream back.\n<\/p>\n \nJed flies us back to the airport. He doesn\u2019t say a word. The toddler whimpers in my arms. I hum a soft song I last hummed to Billy, rocking her, wiping wet strands of hair that stick to her face. Sarah never strays from her hysteria, kicking and screaming and cursing the whole flight through, accusing a girl of three of war crimes, accusations as implausible as a toddler boarding a Cessna mid-flight, as improbable as a woman falling from the sky, not by plane, not by helicopter, but by means beyond reality.\n<\/p>\n \nI need a drink.\n<\/p>\n \n \nI wrangle Sarah into our integration room, which doubles as our break room. I needed help from Jed, leg irons, and a transit restraint belt to do it. The girl’s name is Kyala. She rode to the station with Jed in his black Dodge Ram. Sarah rode in the back of the Sheriff\u2019s car with me.\n<\/p>\n \nThe Mr. Coffee bubbles and spits, filling the room with its aroma. Sarah\u2019s sitting across from me, the stainless-steel table between us. She\u2019s got her head down and my heart in two because she\u2019s silently crying. I guess she tired herself quiet in the Cessna. I\u2019m exhausted, too, not knowing up from left. If people got gas tanks, our arrows point to empty.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGive me something to work with?\u201d I say, my tears welling.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cIt wasn\u2019t supposed to happen like that.\u201d Sarah stares at me, her brown eyes wet. \u201cI had one job, one purpose. God, I\u2019m stupid, but the probability, I mean, for us to be right there at that precise moment\u2026\u201d She shakes her head. \u201cI should have done more.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cMore what?\u201d I can\u2019t think past her trying to kill us. I stand and kick my chair. Misjudging, I knock it over with my shin. \u201cYou horse-punched a three-year-old! You grabbed the throttle of a plane with the intent of murder-suicide.\u201d I pace the room with a limp, my shin smarting.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cShe\u2019s not any toddler?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou\u2019ve mentioned.\u201d I grab the chair and straddle its back.\n<\/p>\n \nSarah leans toward me and says in a quiet voice, \u201cShe\u2019s a mass murderer.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cShe\u2019s three years old!\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nSarah sighs, closes her eyes, and pinches the bridge of her nose. \u201cNot now. When she grows up.\u201d She opens her eyes. \u201cShe\u2019s gonna murder millions, gonna gas them, vaporize them, conduct the worst genocide the world has seen.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHow the hell do you know that?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cPut two and two together, George.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cOh, now I get it.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nSarah exhales, puffing out her cheeks. \u201cI thought you would.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI get you\u2019re laying the foundation for an insanity defense, brick by crazy brick.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nSarah shakes her head. \u201cListen up.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThis ought to be good.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThe fall victim from this morning, she\u2019s Kyala\u2019s number two.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI want to believe her, really do, and I know they\u2019re connected. But I can\u2019t jump feet-first into the straight jacket she offers. \u201cSarah, that woman was twenty or thirty years older than Kyala.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhen she died, yes, but they were born in the same generation. Kyala Meladrova in the year 2322. Natasha Birmingham, the woman from this morning, was born in 2318.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWas<\/em>? Last I checked we\u2019re in the twenty-first century.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYour snark isn\u2019t needed, George.\u201d Sarah sighs and looks at her lap. \u201cHear me out. Please?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNo. I see where this crazy train\u2019s heading, and I want off.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI\u2019m undercover from the future, George.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI jolt to my feet. \u201cAnd I\u2019m out.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI open the door and slam it, yet out in the hallway, I can hear Sarah through the speakers. She knows this and continues her evidentiary groundwork toward spending life in a cozy hospital.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThe resistance sent them to this time, this location, at an altitude that\u2019ll kill them. My job is to confirm the job\u2019s done. It\u2019ll prevent World War IV, prevent their criminal atrocities. Thank God, Natasha Birmingham\u2019s dead! Kyala must also die! Go to my condo. You know where I keep the spare key. You\u2019ll get your proof in my office safe. Password\u2019s my birthday.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI go straight to my office where Jed and Kyala wait. When I open the door, Kyala stares and smiles, and continues playing with a model police car. She\u2019s making it fly.\n<\/p>\n \nJed clinks ice into another glass of bourbon.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cPour me one.\u201d Once the words come out, I\u2019m settled on getting drunk tonight. It\u2019ll be my first time since Laura and Billy went missing. May the buzz dull my shame.\n<\/p>\n \nJed tops off his glass and slides it my way. I lift the whiskey to my nose and sniff. When the smell hits me, my skin tingles and gets all goose-fleshed, an electric shock of invigoration. Colorful fireworks\u2014red ones, blue ones, gorgeous ones\u2014they\u2019re blasting in my head.\n<\/p>\n \nOne sip away from escape, I open my eyes and stare at Kyala, lovely and innocent. She\u2019s wearing a dress of silver, white ruffles around the neck, her skin the color of milk. Blue veins, ever so faint, traverse her temple. Her blue eyes are bloodshot from crying. A large bump on her head is getting redder by the minute. Right now, I\u2019m all she\u2019s got.\n<\/p>\n \nI place the whiskey glass back on the table.\n<\/p>\n \nKyala hovers the police cruiser over the ground, asks for permission to land, and slowly touches four little wheels to the floor. She looks up at me with those big, blue eyes. \u201cI\u2019m hungry.\u201d Her voice is high and as sweet as ice tea with an accent I can\u2019t place.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cDo you like burgers and fries?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nKyala shrugs.\n<\/p>\n \n \nAfter McDonald\u2019s, I take Kyala to Sarah\u2019s condo. It\u2019s the best option of many bad ones. Jed\u2019s halfway to blitz by now. Any other sitter will ask questions I don\u2019t want to answer.\n<\/p>\n \nI find the spare key underneath a pot of sunflowers on Sarah\u2019s back patio. It’s bizarre creeping into her condo without her around. Then again, nothing about today comes a country mile near normal.\n<\/p>\n \nKyala scarfs down her Happy Meal at the glass dining-room table and laughs when she finds an Elsa figure at the bottom of the smiling, red and yellow box. She stares at me with a blank expression when I sing the chorus to \u201cLet It Go.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cFrom Frozen?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nKyala shows no recognition.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThis simply won\u2019t do.\u201d I turn on Sarah\u2019s television and open the Disney Plus app, so Frozen can babysit Kyala while I search Sarah\u2019s office. The instrumental to \u201cWhen You Wish Upon a Star\u201d plays, and fireworks explode over the Disney castle, and Kyala potters into the living room, her eyes mesmerized. TV hypnotized, Laura and I used to call it whenever Billy\u2019s eyes glazed to glass.\n<\/p>\n \nI swallow the lump and wipe my eyes, remembering that day with Billy. That day, our last day together, he, snot-nosed and fever, stayed home from daycare. Daddy\u2019s got this, I told Laura, and I cuddled with Billy and his ragged teddy bear on the couch, watching Frozen on DVD. Remember those? And I drank, and Laura came home and found the empties and said something about it being the last straw and something about having a broken heart and something about waiting in Missoula until I put down the bottle. A twelve-pack in, I don\u2019t remember her exact words. I\u2019m not sure whether I hugged Billy goodbye. That kills me.\n<\/p>\n \nI am crying now, standing there for I-don\u2019t-know-how-long, and Kyala hugs my leg, the hypnotic spell of Frozen broken for pathetic ol\u2019 me.\n<\/p>\n \nI pick her up and say, \u201cYou\u2019re a sweet thing.\u201d I carry her to the couch and set her down and grab the softest blanket I can find from the linen closet. I hum along to the song \u201cFor the First Time in Forever,\u201d and I tuck her in, and her eyes squint, and her eyes close. She falls asleep.\n<\/p>\n \nAnd for the first time in forever, I hear the soft rasps of a child sleeping. And for the first time in forever, the suffocating pain doesn\u2019t feel as heavy, and I smile. It\u2019s faint, that smile, but true and involuntary, not painted on for social conventions.\n<\/p>\n \nI head for the office, down a hallway, past a photograph of a black wild horse standing in a purple field of lupines, past a glass display of arrowheads found on Sarah\u2019s ranch, and past a diffuser puffing wisps of eucalyptus oil.\n<\/p>\n \nI push open the door to Sarah\u2019s office and go straight to her home safe. It\u2019s stashed under a large wooden desk. Crouching, I turn its combination lock guided by Sarah\u2019s birthday, my heart rate increasing with each rotation. 11. 27. 92. The door of the safe swings open, revealing two objects inside\u2014a translucent, fist-sized cube and a silver rifle, unknown make and model. I know firearms. It must be a toy.\n<\/p>\n \nWhen I touch the cube, it illuminates from within. The light, a cool white, pulses, humming and vibrating. I place it on the desk and step back. The pulses quicken in pace until the cube becomes one solid light and hum. This is Sarah\u2019s proof? A night light and a toy gun?\n<\/p>\n \nI pick the cube up to examine it and am bombarded by a flurry of mental images, articles, and videos of a future war, suffering the world over. I grasp my temple and fall to my knees. I\u2019m overwhelmed by what\u2019s downloading in my brain, so fast, so hard, it\u2019s incomprehensible in any narrative form. But the feeling? The feeling I know too well\u2014dread at its darkest core.\n<\/p>\n \nI drop the cube and the mental bombardment stops, but I retain it all, know Kyala\u2019s life, from cradle to grave. Orphaned as a newborn, Kyala\u2019s a product of the cold state. Never hugged, never loved, she\u2019s neglected by adults and beaten and bullied by her peers. They mold her. They harden her. She becomes the bully.\n<\/p>\n \nI gaze at the cube, nestled by thick carpet. It\u2019s from the future. Where else could such a technological wonder come from? I wish I never touched it, wish I didn\u2019t know the evil Kyala becomes.\n<\/p>\n \nI\u2019m sweating and nauseous and can\u2019t shake the images that\u2019ll haunt me until my end: whole cities vaporized, whole countries toppled within days. Crowds shouting and spitting and cursing in unison, whipped into a hateful fever by an adult Kyala at a podium, large flags of green and yellow stars behind her. \u201cMore blood!\u201d they shout. \u201cMore death!\u201d they crave. Kyala provides until all the world is hers, dissent squashed, resistance trampled. She\u2019s neglected no more.\n<\/p>\n \nAnd now I sympathize with Sarah, know that at whatever cost this future must not come to fruition. If Kyala lives, my hands will drip with the blood of millions.\n<\/p>\n \nBut she\u2019s three years old, yet to commit any crime. Three! That\u2019s how old Billy was that day Laura and he ran off.\n<\/p>\n \nI punch the carpet bloody, screaming, crying, caught in a familiar mental loop. Where is my boy? I love him, miss him! And Laura? I don\u2019t blame her. She knows they\u2019re more than I deserve and doesn\u2019t want to be found. That\u2019s my best hope. The alternative: They\u2019re dead. That likelihood pummels my conscience because I chased my family away, the first domino of many that ended in their last breath. I hope they died painlessly. I hope they didn\u2019t see it coming. The possibilities otherwise cause my sleepless, screamed-filled nights.\n<\/p>\n \nWith my left hand, I touch my bloodied knuckle, the flesh tender and rug-burned, and take deep breaths to set my ruminations free. I must learn more, so I pick the cube up, the information ricocheting inside my brain. I drop the cube when I can take no more, and I hyperventilate on all fours, dizzy, seeing ephemeral specks dance in my vision. Sweat trickles down my face. It burns my eyes.\n<\/p>\n \nAnd now I know how Sarah, Kyala, and her number two traveled to the present day\u2014the silver rifle. It\u2019s no toy, but a time machine, the user manual downloaded into my brain. While the technical ingenuity of this marvel is far beyond me, it\u2019s user-friendly, as easy as counting one, two, three. One, calibrate the rifle to your desired destination\u2014there\u2019s a dial of numbers for time and location. Two, point the rifle at your desired time traveler, yourself or another. Three, pull the trigger. Yippee!\n<\/p>\n \nI hear a car pull into Sarah\u2019s driveway. The engine shuts off. Two doors slam shut. \u201cInside!\u201d It\u2019s Sarah\u2019s voice. I\u2019m puzzled about how she broke free. I\u2019m certain why she has come\u2014her unfinished business. I\u2019m all that\u2019s stopping her. I’m torn about my next move.\n<\/p>\n \nI peek out the window. Sarah and a fit man, wearing urban fatigues and a don\u2019t-mess-with-me expression, sprint toward the front porch. He\u2019s carrying what looks like a pistol. So he is how Sarah escaped. Betchya, he came from the future.\n<\/p>\n \nI got seconds before they barge into the living room. The fate of millions or one sweet girl hinges on my decision.\n<\/p>\n \nI know what I must do.\n<\/p>\n \nI grab the rifle, sprint into the living room, and calibrate the rifle to Missoula, fifteen years ago. I double-check I got the altitude right.\n<\/p>\n \nSarah and the man burst through the door at the same time I point the rifle at Kyala.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGeorge, don\u2019t!\u201d Sarah says, and the man aims his pistol.\n<\/p>\n \nKyala, woken by our commotion, bolts upright and screams.\n<\/p>\n \nI pull the trigger. So does the man.\n<\/p>\n \nI\u2019m a half-a-breath quicker than he, the blue beam from my rifle hitting Kyala. She disappears. A barrage of bullets smatters the cushion where she sat, fluff everywhere. My God, all from a pistol!\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGeorge, what have you\u2014\u201c\n<\/p>\n \nI shoot myself into the past before Sarah finishes.\n<\/p>\n \n \nI\u2019m pushing Kyala in a swing in a pocket park across from the address Laura gave me when she left. It\u2019s a cute house with yellow siding and blue trim. Mount Sentinel looms overhead, its grass the vivid green that early June brings. White caps Lolo Peak to the south, an accentuating beauty underneath the blue sky.\n<\/p>\n \nLaura and Billy aren\u2019t home, probably a good thing, so I can compose myself.\n<\/p>\n \nWhen I first had arrived, I had pounded on the door, holding Kyala\u2019s hand while she wailed, the rifle in the other hand. An elderly woman next door had pulled the blinds up and peeked with a busy-body expression pouting her face. I thank my lucky stars she didn\u2019t call the cops. That\u2019d have been quite the conversation.\n<\/p>\n \nMore collected, I\u2019m rehearsing what I\u2019m going to say to Laura. I half-don\u2019t believe it myself. What rational person would?\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHigher!\u201d Kyala giggles. \u201cHigher!\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nMy heart flutters, and I gasp when Sarah\u2019s faded-red Nissan Maxima turns onto the neighborhood street. Billy sits in his car seat in the back, his sticky hands smudging the glass. He waves at me! I stick up my hand back. I can\u2019t hold back the tears.\n<\/p>\n \nLaura pulls into the driveway and idles.\n<\/p>\n \nShe might drive off.\n<\/p>\n \nI pick up Kyala, tell her I got two friends for her to meet, and carrying her in one arm, I jog across the street.\n<\/p>\n \nLaura opens the door and steps out. Slumped shoulders, a heavy sigh, her body language shows the score.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGeorge, you look awful,\u201d she says.\n<\/p>\n \nI smirk. I can\u2019t help it because of her understatement. Gray-speckled hair, ten pounds heavier, I haven\u2019t treated my body as a temple since she left, to her only a day ago.\n<\/p>\n \nShe stops mid-reach of the rear door and tilts her head. \u201cWho\u2019s the girl?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI place Kyala, feet first, on the driveway. \u201cI gotta lot to tell you, and we don\u2019t have much time, but first can I hold you and Billy?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nLaura opens the rear door.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cDaddy!\u201d Billy reaches toward me, his blue eyes sparkling.\n<\/p>\n \nAll the pain built up inside escapes my mouth as a warbling cry. My knees buckle. I lean on the car to keep from falling. \u201cI never thought I\u2019d hear him say that again.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI\u2019m mad as hell at you, George.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI know, baby. I know.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nShe unlatches Billy from the car seat. He grabs for me, smiling, his teeth and lips blue from an earlier treat.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cCan I?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cOf course, hun.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nShe called me hun!\n<\/p>\n \nI clutch Billy, and he clings on tight, and Laura hugs me, and it is as if we three are puzzle pieces that fit together. We found the fourth.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThis is Kyala.\u201d I pick her up, and she joins our embrace, and I ask the question that burns in my throat: \u201cWill you take me back?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nLaura puts Billy down and takes a step back, scanning me from head to toe. \u201cAre you sober?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYes, and I\u2019ll never drink again.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThen, you needn\u2019t have asked. Didn\u2019t I tell you we\u2019d be waiting here for you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI place Kyala back down, and Billy runs to a toy lawnmower in the front yard and pushes it, plastic balls of assorted colors popping in its transparent bubble.\n<\/p>\n \nKyala giggles after. She falls, lets out a cute yelp, and cries. Laura and I sprint over.\n<\/p>\n \nLaura lifts her up, shushes her, and rubs her back. \u201cDon\u2019t cry, darling.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nKyala buries her head into Laura\u2019s shoulder.\n<\/p>\n \nBilly raises his arms for me to pick him up. When I do, he nuzzles his head into my shoulder. Heaven.\n<\/p>\n \nSarah\u2019s going about it wrong. Kids will be kids; their innocence transcends the centuries. Give them all of yourself, and they’ll love the world back. Kyala needs parents. She needs us.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWanna visit Paris?\u201d I ask.\n<\/p>\n \nLaura smiles, her eyes wet.\n<\/p>\n \nHow I miss that gleam.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNot sure how we can afford the trip, but sure. I’ll bite. I adore Paris.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhich decade?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThat I love best?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThat you want to visit.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nShe swats my shoulder, smirking. \u201cSure you\u2019re not drunk?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cOnly on happiness,\u201d I say, tears trickling down my face.\n<\/p>\n \nTo think\u2014fifteen years of toiling in criminal databases, fifteen years of yelling at God to help\u2014I should have looked in the mirror. My suspect would have stared right back.\n<\/p>\n \nMaybe, we\u2019ll go to Paris. Perhaps, Morocco. The destination matters little. What matters most is my family\u2014Laura, Billy, and now, Kyala. They will get all of me wherever, whenever we go. Loving a child to prevent a world war? That\u2019s easy. Loving my reflection? That\u2019s harder, but a must.\n<\/p>\n John Eric (\u201cJ. E.\u201d) Schleicher is an award-winning author who writes stories that leave behind a fantastical aftertaste long after reading. His short fiction has appeared in Creepy Podcast and will appear in the forthcoming anthologies, Writers of the Future, Volume 40 and Black Hare Press\u2019s Year Six. His short story \u201cSquiddy\u201d was a winner of the Writers of the Future contest and is currently being novelized. When not reading or writing, he enjoys wandering wonderstruck (on two legs or knobby wheels) the mountains near his home in Missoula, Montana. Visit his website at jeschleicher.com or connect with him on Threads & Instagram @JESchleicher. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Fifteen years on the force, ten as the county sheriff, I thought I\u2019ve seen the grisly worst. Mostly ranch accidents. Hooves and horns through skulls, barbed wire through most everything, I got a stomach lined with steel, a gag reflex that doesn\u2019t gag. And here I am, bent over, OJ, eggs, biscuits and gravy on …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107963,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20138],"tags":[20139],"class_list":["post-140348","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-52-summer-2024","tag-the-colored-lens-52-summer-2024","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140348","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107963"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140348"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140348\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140349,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140348\/revisions\/140349"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140348"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140348"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140348"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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