They were evenly spaced like numbers on a dial—all twelve accounted for. No natural occurrence, he decided. Someone planted them like that, coercing a bit of order in an otherwise chaotic forest. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he stood in the center of the trees anyway, pondering his next move. The rifle lay thick and heavy in his hands, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to lift it, position it securely against his shoulder, and absorb the shock of its discharge. Not today, anyway. He couldn’t focus. He looked at the targets sway right then left, back and forth—taunting him. Playing a game—a game without frontiers. Try your best, they teased. We’ll evade you. He thought he wanted them to, and then he could drop the gun, wash his hands of the imaginary blood, and head for her house where he would gladly hide. Forever. He shook his head then looked up. Clouds everywhere. Milky blue stretched as far as he could see. Winter was coming.
