Jonas

Rob lit the wood stove back up and sat in the old recliner by the window with his shotgun across his lap.

He didn't say a word, just stared outside.

We stayed up the whole night.

When the sun finally came up, Rob insisted we check the spot again.

I didn't want to, but he wasn't going alone.

The deer carcass was gone.

We patched the fence before noon.

By the end of the week, Rob had listed the trailer for sale.

I was 26 when this happened.

Lived in a quiet town called Dorsey Falls, right up against the edge of White Hollow Forest.

Not much goes on out there, I wasn't into any of that.

Didn't hunt, didn't fish, didn't even drink much.

My job was part-time delivery driver for a whole resort down in the valley.

Thursdays were my long-haul days, where I'd load up the back of the truck with belts, pads, alternators, and whatever else people needed, then wind my way through the back roads delivering to mechanics that seemed to live right at the edge of nowhere.

That Thursday was one of those cold November days where it feels later than it is.

The sun dips down behind the hills around 4.30, and by 5, it might as well be midnight.

I was already on my last regular stop, Carver's Garage, just off Split Ridge, when Mitch asked if I could squeeze in one more.

Said some guy called earlier that morning needing a set of brake pads and a serpentine belt for a 99 F minutes, 150.

Mitch had already run it up and everything, but none of the other guys wanted to drive out that far.

Milner County Line, he told me, which wasn't unusual.