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at 10,000 feet somewhere over Mississippi.  Sleep loomed closer still as the sun lazily drifted down beyond the distant horizon, casting a grayish hue over the monotonous landscape, as it dutifully continued its procession toward the inevitable embrace with the black cloak of darkness. Thankfully he had flown this route countless times before and could do it with his eyes closed, he mused.
    John gazed down upon the countryside passing beneath him and saw only a single pair of headlights moving along the interstate below.  He was returning from a two week volunteer stint at a Native American Reservation a few states over.  He had done this each year for the last six years, having initially started doing it as a form of service as well as a way to honor his deceased father, who really embraced the Native American part of his heritage.  While John had truly grown to enjoy his time on the reservation, the pace of his work there over the last couple of weeks left him exhausted.  There was a full-time Native American healthcare provider on the reservation, but John sometimes felt like the people must save up all their problems for his arrival.
    The relative societal isolation experienced on the reservation always came as a welcomed reprieve from the hassles and stresses of his typical day-to-day life.  This was particularly true this year, as the hysteria caused by the ongoing H5N1 flu scare caused a significant increase in patient encounters in the weeks prior to his trip.  On the reservation, there was no television in his apartment and his cellphone only received a reliable signal in the northeast corner of the property.  Incidentally, that happened to be the least populated area, and thus one to which John rarely ever ventured.  He was secretly grateful not to hear the television reporters spouting off the latest numbers in the ever-climbing yearly murder count – a staple of the nightly news.  Being able to tell his office that he would have minimal phone reception and limited access to e-mail always brought a satisfied smile to his face.  While the clinic did have internet access, he seldom connected his laptop, favoring to embrace the temporary technological respite rather than suffer the painfully slow dial-up connection.
    Dr. John Wild was born to a fairly typical upper middle class American family.  His father, Benjamin Wild, was part Native American and a former Vietnam sniper.  After his time in the service, his father generally kept several jobs and frequently worked long hours while his mother tended to the business of raising John and his three sisters in Mountain View, California.  John learned his father was ascribed the nickname ‘Bingo’ during his military tenure but knew little more about his time in the service.
    Ben Wild did not like to talk about his time as a sniper and did not take kindly to anyone referencing him by the old nickname anymore.  He was a hard-ass, and he always expected John to follow his rules to the letter.  While he never told John any of the specifics about his time in the military, Ben shared many insights, skills, and opinions that were certainly honed to a razor’s edge during that period of Ben’s life.
    As a child, John was fairly mischievous and often managed to find his way into any trouble that happened to be around.  Despite his intermittent, albeit mild, scrapes with authority, he proved to be an exceptional student and ultimately attended Stanford University for undergraduate coursework.
    For six months prior to his decision to pursue higher education at Stanford, John gave serious consideration to signing up for military duty as his father had done.  John admired the training and dedication of the military and law enforcement.  The few stories his father saw fit to share with him regarding his time in service made the job seem very exciting and attractive to his young mind.  The precision, efficiency, and valor of the well-trained soldiers in the