When I first met Hunter, he was carrying a Saker falcon on his fist through JFK airport's International Terminal arrival hall. He was lost, and yet he didn' t look it, winding through the crowd, heedless of the strange looks he got. I watched him as the authorities in the body of PAPD officer Mark Bowman stopped him, and I watched him sizing the officer up, picking up his scent and deciding to give it a try. I coudn't fight back silent amusement when I saw the poor officer's reaction as Hunter worked his magic with quiet self - confidence and zenlike serenity. It made me wonder what could make a man like this lose his cool, and why it was Mark, of all people, would be the one to make him. And this lead to wondering how a man like Hunter could have become that way in the first place, what it might have taken to build those many layers of stillness around a burning hot, untiring core.
This was when Hunter stepped forward to tell me his story. I only needed to write it down.
The result became a short story, DESERT FALCON.
I liked it. Actually, I liked it a lot. I let a few people read the story, and guess what? They liked it, too.
So I decided to give it a try. Do you know what happened?
Make an educated guess, as the angels suggests to the dead man with the coffee maker in the commercial.
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