Game of Snipers

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He saw Katie amid the prairie flowers. She sat, legs crossed, while the wind played with her hair, and it gleamed in the sun. She smiled brightly. She always smiled. Four years old was the age of smiles. She looked so happy, and around her the grass fluttered in the breeze, and it must have pleased her, for she turned to face it, tilting her little nose up.

“Katie!” he called. “Katie, sweetie… Katie!”

She turned to his voice, and her blue eyes lit with love.

“Daddy,” she called. “Hi, Daddy!”

“Sweetie, I’m coming,” Paul yelled, and lunged to run to her, to hold her tight, to smother her in his arms and protect her from all. It’s what a father did.

But he could not make it.

He was handcuffed to a post. The sharpness of metal pulled hard against his wrists.

“Katie, I—”

“Daddy, I have to go.”

“No, Katie, no. I’ll be right there.”

But his wrists would not yield, and though he yanked hard enough to draw blood from his flesh, the cuffs would not give.

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