I shook my head and looked again. Sure enough, my father was crawling towards the wall with a small rifle in his hands and a box. I recognized the box and the rifle. The rifle was a .22 my dad had found a year ago. It was supposed to be a copy of a more powerful rifle, but it was still fun to shoot. It had a thingy on it that was supposed to make the gun shoot quietly, but it was just for show, as my dad said. But he tinkered with it and found that if he took the fake silent thing off and cut the barrel down, he could attach a big oil filter from a truck. When he fired it like that, it made almost no sound at all. Trouble was, we couldn’t aim it very well. Why my dad had it now was very curious. He made it to the wall, and I could see his bright white bandage nearly glowing in the early dawn. He looked up at me and gave me a small wave, then moved over to the wall. He stood up and rested the big filter barrel in a notch of the rocks. His head was clearly visible to the Trippers, but they hadn’t seen him yet. I was nervous as hell, and went so far as to get my bow strung and stand by my window, ready to let fly.
