The officer glowered at the snow-clad, bright orange berries of the firethorn bush growing up the side of the abandoned house.  Despite its name, the heavy snow had settled unmelted into the cracks and crannies of the heavily laden branches, just like it had settled into the folds and creases of the eight-year-old’s clothing who’d gotten lost in the sudden blizzard when taking a shortcut on the way home from school.  Despite its name, the bush had not provided warmth and the cold little body was now being lifted into a black bag while his wife wailed and the bright flashes of cameras illuminated the blue midwinter twilight like a summer lightning storm – momentarily blinding, yet unapologetically etching every detail of each instant onto the inside of his skull in high-definition.