Adam Blumer

It is nose-numbing winter near Flint, Michigan. There’s a reason why it’s been called one of the murder capitals of the world. More murders are committed there than even Baghdad. I zip up, push my way through double doors, and leave the elementary school behind, carefully guiding my booted feet down ice-slick steps. The subzero wind chafes my cheeks and stings my eyes until they swim. If had looked at myself in a mirror, rosy cheeks would have glowed back at me. But I don’t seek a mirror. I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. Or where I’m going. Maybe I’m not really going anywhere. Wait. Yes, I am. I turn right and head toward . . . Snow. Dunes of it everywhere. All across the playground. Remnants of the latest storm. I come up short. Staining the snow at my feet pools red Kool-Aid. Lot of it. Something tells…