Arizona Ice
written by: Cynthia Griffin
When I was a child, I fell through ice, remember the crack it made before I plunged through. I was that cold now, in Arizona, on a day when it was 117 degrees.
I shivered uncontrollably. My hands and feet had no more sensation than blocks of wood protruding from the stumps of my arms and legs. My teeth had clattered so hard I thought they might crack, but that had lessened. I could see nada but blackness as dark as the soul of Muerte, but whether it was from the absence of light or if my lashes were frozen shut, I could not say. Sleep beckoned.
The door wrenched open, and light chased darkness into the corners. My misty breath curled around slabs of beef hanging from the ceiling. Filling the doorway, gun drawn, stood a masked figure. Cold eyes seared into mine. I.C.E. had found me.
I lifted my chin. Fuck him. Let them deport me. Madre mía, I would live. I would find my way back to my wife and baby girl. I struggled to stand.
“No one here,” the figure called out.
Que?
The door slammed shut; the lock clicked—like cracking ice.
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