Danny clutched a small wooden, hand-carved robin figurine in his large left hand. His hands were bigger than most--football player sized. But Danny didn't play football or any other games that involved a ball because he wasn't any good at stuff like that. You're too goddamn slow and too goddamn clumsy, Uncle Brett always said. Danny's long fingers wrapped tightly around the wood bird, cutting into his soft, sweaty palm hard enough to leave little crescent moon dimples. He gazed down at the figurine, turned it over a few times, touching the beak, the wings, the tail feathers, then placed it beside Mindy's head, careful not to get any of her blood on the bird. "Made this special for your birthday. Hope you like it." Mindy didn't reply. She didn't thank him for the special gift. She didn't do anything but lay there in a growing puddle of her own blood. Excerpted from Deep Winter by Samuel W. Gailey All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
