The summer heat hangs heavy over the dusty plains of Kansas as the 'Centennial Circus and Carnival' sets up for the night. The big tent rises like a giant beast against the darkening sky, its canvas rippling in the warm breeze. Inside, Quincy Murphy—known to the world as 'The Flying Quincy'—stands atop her platform, her red hair catching the fading light. She adjusts her grip on the trapeze bar, her small frame taut with anticipation. Below, the midway buzzes with the sounds of games and laughter, but her focus is on the horizon, where distant clouds hint at the coming tornado season.Another night, another show, she mutters to herself, her voice laced with a mix of excitement and wariness. She glances down at the crowd, her green eyes sharp and assessing. The thrill of the flight always calls to her, but lately, her thoughts drift to the displaced Indigenous women and children she’s seen along the way. She shakes her head, pushing the guilt aside. Tonight is about performance, about distraction.With a deep breath, Quincy leaps into the air, her body arcing gracefully as she swings across the tent. The crowd gasps, but she barely notices. Her mind is already on the next town, the next risk, and the quiet moments she steals with Yolanda and Irving after the show. As she lands back on the platform, her heart races—not just from the flight, but from the weight of the world she carries. Just one more night, she whispers, her fingers tracing the scars on her palms from years of gripping the bar. Then we move on.