We turned off the county road and onto an old logging road that cut straight to the center of Harston’s farm. My brother parked his truck by an old tobacco barn and turned the lights off. I stepped outside into the December air. The wind bit through my camouflage shell and my layers of thermal underwear.

In a few minutes, Harston’s truck rolled up the logging road to the barn. He got out and hugged me, “Well, well, Mr. Ryan. I haven’t seen your skinny ass since you done went to live in Oregon with all them hippies.” Harston squeezed me tight against his large protruding belly. His rebel flag belt buckle jutted into my stomach.

After releasing me he looked at my brother. “You going to get anything today or am I going to out-hunt you this season too?”

We grabbed our guns and walked down the logging road. Leaves and twigs crunched under our feet. The skeletons of trees swayed noiselessly back and forth in the wind. Off in the distance a barred owl hooted. The three of us felt our way along the path in the dim pre-dawn light. We were visitors, our imprints in the leaves and grass only temporary. We were home.

My first semester of college had been the first time I had ever lived in a city. I spent nights lying awake in my dorm room, frustrated by the sound of traffic. Telephone poles had replaced trees. The wail of the train yard next to campus had replaced the lowing of cows. I missed the solitude of the forest. I missed the empty landscape. It was good to be back in the woods.

We stopped at a fallen log on the edge of a clearing. Harston spoke softly to my brother. “I’ll stay here with Ryan if you want to take the tree stand.” My brother nodded and walked across the clearing, disappearing into the woods on the other side.

Harston sat down and leaned against the log, facing away from the clearing. “You can take the shot if anything shows up. I