Two deaths minutes apart. Chaotic chatter erupted under the hot circus spotlights. Ringmaster doubled as a medic; he tended to Uza. Her head still lay on the hard packed straw while her limbs convulsed. He knew it was a lost cause the moment he saw the fall, but protocol was protocol. A troop of three-foot clowns strapped her down to a stretcher; they worked a large leather buckled strap around her broken neck and scurried away with her.

The Ringmaster stood up, twisted his moustache, replaced his top hat, and turned smiling to the audience.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, now it’s time for the RR-R-R-R-R-R-RING OF FIIIIRE!”

Torches lit in a vast circle stretching from the center of the floor to the front row of the audience. Three grizzly bears made a snarling entrance. They gruffly sniffed the perimeter and then burst out of the circle and through the tent flap.

Ringmaster stood smiling — still in the center of the fiery circle. The torchlight illuminated his face for all to see. Tears streamed down his sweaty face.

Outside, the bears groaned in agony — licking Victor’s torn body — spreading blood in the powder white snow. The audience petered out of the tent slowly like cars passing by a gruesome interstate traffic accident. Their town had been turned upside down for it seemed as sweet soft drink polar bears were devouring human flesh. Pandamonium: puking, running, moaning, shrieking.

Ringmaster fell to his hands and knees. He crawled back to find his daughter — to speak to her one last time.