Mason

and when i swung again the tip of the pole hit one of its antlers and the deer's head snapped sideways it stepped wrong one hoof sliding on rock and i took that half second and shoved it with my shoulder not expecting to move it just desperate

it stumbled recovered and then lunged again and caleb grabbed my arm and yanked me backward and the two of us went down the slope together in a mess of packs and dirt we slid hit something hard slid again branches ripped at my face rocks punched my ribs

I didn't stop until my body found a flat spot between two boulders, and my breath left me in a single ugly cough.

Caleb landed a few feet away, groaning, his eyes wide and wet in the dim light.

Above us, we heard movement, not sliding, controlled steps.

It was coming down after us.

We crawled into a narrow space between the boulders and pressed ourselves into it.

Packs half on, half off, arms shaking.

The gap was too tight for something with wide antlers to get through without lowering its head.

And I remember thinking that and hating myself for thinking like that.

Because I was treating it like a normal deer again.

Because that was easier than accepting what was happening.

The hoofstep stopped above us.

We could hear breathing again, slow and steady.

Then we heard a different sound.

The scrape of antler against rock, deliberate, testing the opening.

A long pause.

Then the voice again, right above our heads, calm and flat, saying, "'Caleb,' and then saying my name, and then saying, "'Come out.'"

No pleading, no anger, instruction.

Caleb started crying without sound.