Page 122 of The Island

They understood each other perfectly.

They both knew that all this was theater. That she was not going to go through with it. This was the second time he had taken her after big game. She was as stubborn as he was.

When the big bull elk was only twenty-five yards away, she sighted him in the heart and lungs just to the right of his dark brown mane. She moved her finger to the trigger.

She held it there for a moment.

“Pow,” she whispered.

She safetied the Winchester and laid it on the snow.

Her dad picked it up and looked through the sight. “The bull?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

He swung back the bolt, removed the .257 round, and returned it to the Ziploc ammo bag.

The elks still had no clue that humans were fifty feet away.

Her father put a sleeve on the Winchester.

He looked like he was finally going to say something but in the end he didn’t quite know how.

He had been a staff sergeant. She assumed that that had entailed giving orders and barking commands, sometimes in extremis. But she had never even seen him yell at the dog. Her mother had also been a sergeant and she could certainly imagine her giving orders. But not him. He had left his articulation over there.

She had to be the one to speak. “I’m sorry if I let you down.”

“No!” he replied. “Lord, no. It’s OK. You’re a good girl. You did the right thing.”

On the walk back down she saw that the doe tracks by the river had been so effectively erased, it was as if they had never existed at all. Life, she supposed, was like that—a fleeting impression by a little stream in a big wood that was soon gone.

On the drive home they listened to Neil Young and Dolly and Willie.

It was dusk when they drove off the ferry.

Blue woodsmoke was coming from the cabins. All those little chimney tops in secret communication with the sky.

It was dark when they made it to the house.

The Sound was black. Seattle twinkled in the far distance.

Her dad had been thinking. Her mom had known she would pull this again. She’d said, “Leave the girl.”

“I’ll talk to your mother,” he said. “We can probably get meat just as cheap at Costco.”

“As cheap as free?”

“Nothing’s free.”

They went inside. Her mom had made chili from chuck meat. She already knew. She didn’t even say anything. She just smiled and gave Heather a hug. Moms.

Heather helped her father with the dishes.

He cleared his throat. “There are times when you have to take the fight to the enemy. But he wasn’t our enemy. It wasn’t his time.”

“No,” she agreed.

He ruffled her hair. She felt the hand.