One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 5, page 2

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Pí‘oro Kılímo stared down at Bhanar’s fractured legs and rubbed his forehead. He had to get the kid inside to stop the bleeding and fix the breaks, but the big man was afraid to touch them. What if he hurt Bhanar even further? The foreign kid had dragged himself across the ground, apparently oblivious to his legs, but Pí‘oro knew the kid was in shock; Pí‘oro could still cause him all sorts of pain and anguish. Pí‘oro could still kill him accidentally.

And now that punk Zhíno had run off into the desert. Maybe he was chasing after the blonde, but maybe he was just hiding so he could take shots at Pí‘oro and Bhanar. Either way, the punk was definitely also running away from the Colonial Enforcers. A cruiser came screaming to a halt just beside Zhíno’s stolen cruiser, then pulled off onto the gravel verge.

“Dead,” whispered Bhanar. “Make him dead.”

Pí‘oro frowned and glanced down at the foreign kid. Did he truly want Pí‘oro to shoot the Enforcer? No, Bhanar was delusional, staring off into the dark sky. He probably still was thinking about that punk, Zhíno.

The old man massaged his scalp with his left hand. He had to get Bhanar in the house, one way or another. If he hurt him further in the process, surely the kid would understand.

“This is the Colonial Enforcers. Drop your weapons!”

Oh, right. The police.

Pí‘oro turned to look down the driveway. The Enforcer was out of his cruiser and ten meters toward Pí‘oro. He’d drawn his gun, but held it with both hands pointing at the ground. He was tall, blond, and young. Then again, just about everybody looked young to Pí‘oro.

“I said: Drop your weapons!”

Pí‘oro shrugged. “They’re unloaded.” Which they were.

The cop pointed his gun at Pí‘oro. “Drop them!”

“Very well,” the old man called. He slowly bent over to gently place his rifle on the gravel. “Bhanar, set down your rifle.”

The foreign kid hugged his rifle tight to his chest. “No, no!”

“Son, drop your rifle.”

But the kid held it tight. It had to be the injuries making him crazy as Nunıta. He clearly knew what they were asking.

To the Enforcer, Pí‘oro yelled, “He’s been hit by that auto. His legs are broken. I don’t think he’s completely here. His rifle is empty.”

The policeman lowered his handgun slightly and began walking forward. “Who was that who ran off into the desert?”

Thus begins the tedium. “The man who arrived in that cruiser. I was told his name was Zhíno by a blonde woman who arrived in that brown auto. She ran off into the desert when he drove up.”

The Enforcer stopped three meters from Pí‘oro and Bhanar. He furrowed his narrow brow as he processed Pí‘oro’s information.

“What is your name?” the policeman snapped.

“Pí‘oro Kılímo. This is my house. I came out when I heard gunfire. This kid, Bhanar, was in the back of the blue truck at the time.”

The policeman’s bright-blue eyes pierced Pí‘oro. He was probably giving too much information, but this was going to take forever otherwise. He had to get the Enforcer out of there as quickly as possible so he could get Bhanar fixed up.

“Bhanar, eh? Where’s he from?”

“I don’t know. Not the Union, that’s for sure. Look,” growled Pí‘oro, “that punk Zhíno is running around in the desert with a handgun.” He was about to tell the policeman to go hunt Zhíno down, but a different tactic hit him. “He might be pointing it at us right this instant. Shouldn’t we get inside?”

Pí‘oro knew the punk didn’t really want to kill them, but just scare them. But the Enforcer didn’t know that.

The Enforcer shook his head. “We can’t move him,” he rejoindered with a nod at Bhanar, “and we can’t leave him out here alone. I’ll call an ambulance and we’ll wait.” He paused and looked closer at the foreign kid. “Didn’t you start first aid?”

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