the foliage with their teeth. Twilford arranged the
binoculars and focused before locating the animals. A buck and a doe. They both had antlers
but as was natural the buck’s were the prize, a
glorious rack. He counted seven points on one
side, which doubled equaled fourteen, his head
not too dogged for simple arithmetic. Sighting a
pair like this, a buck and a doe, was a rarity. The
doe usually stuck with her fawn while the buck
ambled solo.
Twilford waited three full minutes as the
pair inched past a wide oak and into a clearing.
He raised the rifle and took aim at the buck, the
crosshairs falling easily onto the animal’s torso
just behind the front leg. His finger trembled on
the trigger. At the last moment, he redirected the
barrel toward the doe. He fired, dropping her.
The buck bolted.
He knew he’d done a bad thing. Does
were off-limits during rifle season, a lost license
and a heavy fine the penalty, not to mention scorn
and derision from hunters who caught wind of
the transgression. He regretted it, but now it was
too late to fix.
He arm-wiped sweat from his eyes,
re-loaded his gun, and put fresh chew to his gums
before walking to the carcass. When he got to
the spot where she’d fallen, the doe was gone. It
hadn’t been dead but only wounded.
He told himself to be calm. He had
tracked wounded prey before, and often. No
injured deer had been left by Twilford in the wild;
no reason to think this precedent. Blood had
pooled where the creature buckled. He spotted
additional drops a few feet away, in the direction
of the pond. With rifle shouldered he followed
the trail, stepping as fast as possible without raising a ruckus. Blood glinted on the leaves, on the
dirt, as sunsh ine stabbed through the awning of
trees.
He found her at the water’s edge, prone
on her side. He knelt beside the doe and touched
her flank. Blood flowed gentle and dark from her
nostrils. A peaceful feeling settled into Twilford
as he hoped he could ease her transition, but
then something beneath the hide jabbed dully
against his hand. She was pregnant, the fawn
still alive. He pulled the knife from his belt and
sawed carefully, a flood of innards cascading as he
worked her length. He reached in and took hold
of a little beast, hairless and brownish-red and
coated by the juices of the sac. On the ground it
writhed, mouth issuing a plaintive gurgle, kicking
for life but finding none. It was too small, and
Twilford realized he should have left the thing in
the warm comfort of his momma until its light
faded. Another mistake, another death, and Twilford’s hands bore the blood.
He rinsed in the pond and was about to
head back to his Thermos and gun case when the
buck rushed him. It charged headlong, all two
hundred pounds barreling into Twilford, knocking him down and raking his face with its rack.
One of the points punctured his neck, the thick
hook of antler scratching his windpipe from the
inside.
Then the buck was gone, clumping away
through the brush as Twilford tried but failed to
crawl. He lay beside his gun in the weeds. His
chest was crushed; gasping for breath felt like
inhaling fire. He knew if he didn’t get help soon
he would die. A gunshot wouldn’t bring other
hunters near; they would navigate away from
wherever the sound came.
His cell phone was in his pants pocket. Wincing, pressing one hand to his bleeding neck, he
managed to retrieve it. A signal, although weak,
meant he could try.
He considered dialing 9-1-1 – knowing
this was the logical choice – but speaking with a
faceless, anonymous operator during perhaps his
last moments on earth was a thought as crushing as the pain in his chest. He needed to hear a
familiar voice.
He realized, though, as if for the first time, that
only two peoples’ numbers were programmed into
his phone: Elsa and Jeremy. A handful of other
numbers were in there, too: but only restaurants
with delivery service. How had he reached midlife with but two friends? Sadly was the answer.
He dialed Elsa. He needed to at least profess
something to her. Something . . . but what? Not
love, exactly. Not anger, either. All of the rage
seemed to have flowed out from the puncture in
his neck. Had he failed her as a boyfriend? Surely, yes, although no specific failings entered his
mind. But Elsa was a kind woman, a person of
character who would not stray without cause; he
bore at least a share of the blame.
He heard two rings. Then a young man’s voice:
“Duncan’s Pizza, may I take your order?”
Twilford’s thick thumb had pushed the wrong