The ball made a sharp slice, the bright green dot through the night-vision goggles I had on a kind of missile peeling off to the right into the trees. No way would I be going after that one. No way. Night-vision goggles: AN/PVS-7D Generation 4 with an infrared illuminator. You couldn’t get these unless you were military or law. Unc knew people in both. “Sliced it,” I whispered. “Big.” I took in a breath, let it out in a hard sigh. “That one’s gone.” I sat on the fold-up camp chair we always brought with us, Unc in the tee box ten feet to my left, me facing straight ahead down the fairway so I could watch where the ball went. Like always, I felt like some Borged-up cyclops with these things on, the gear strapped onto an old yellow hard hat I picked up a year or so ago from the work site out to Hungry Neck after they’d halted building. It’d only taken a couple minutes to get out here once I’d gotten my hands cleaned up enough: first I’d tossed that idiot block out into the marsh grass, then’d pulled from the bottom of the jon boat the eight-foot plank we keep in there, slid it out over the bow onto solid ground.
