“Absolutely not,” I called back.

“Why not?”

“I don’t like to kill things. I’m a vegetarian, remember?”

He snorted. “Hunting don’t mean you’re gonna kill something. You talk like you’ll be good at it.”

“It means you’re going to try,” I said.

“Well then do you want to come with me while I try?”

I did not want to ruin the day. “I guess I could. I like to be outdoors,” I lied.

Jackson smiled. “Damn right you do.”

We geared up inside his house, where everything was fur and flowers. Fauna and flora. Instead of bearskin rugs or cartoonish moose heads he had a pair of stiff, tan leather armchairs and a fleet of potted plants. There were plants by the chairs, by the door, by his bed, which was just a twin mattress on the floor. An elephant’s ear kept the little potbellied stove company, its leaves withered and waxy on the hot side. Vines snaked around the posts of lamps and stuck their fingers into his bookshelves, which boasted titles like The Everything Guide to Tanning and Leatherwork, The Huntsman’s Field Guide, and Think Like a Turkey.

He gave me an orange Day-Glo vest and a worn-out baseball cap that read WYOMING GAME AND FISH. “That cap belonged to my father,” he said.

I took it, feigning sentimentality, and then smelled it while his back was turned. It stank of old sweat and sunscreen.

Jackson armed himself with one of the guns and then led me away from his house and through a clearing in the trees that I would not have noticed on my own.

“Watch for snakes and don’t go wandering,” he said. “This place can eat you up.”

I doubled my step—he was already several yards in front of me. We pushed deep into the woods until the hum of cicadas overtook the sounds of the little county highway. Minutes later, sunscreen was burning my eyes, and I had approximately one billion mosquito bites. I felt like the dopey younger sister on a Cub Scout trip. My calves ached; the forest had hills you couldn’t quite tell were hills until you were climbing them. I wanted water. Jackson was still moving fast, his gaze to the trail. He hadn’t looked back since we left his house.

“What are we looking for, anyways?” I asked.

“Anything that moves,” he said. “Squirrel, rabbit, deer.”

“You kill rabbits? But they’re so cute.”

“Cute’s no reason to live.”

“So you eat them? You eat rabbits?”

“In a pinch. They make a decent stew. But what you really want is deer. Enough meat to fill a freezer. Lasts for months. In the winter I sell the jerky at a few gas stations and groceries in the area. But for skins, what you’re looking for is bobcat. If it’s a holy day you might see a mountain lion.”

“There are mountain lions out here?” I quickened my pace.

“You bet. About a week ago, a jogger came close to getting pounced. But he saw the cat coming and played big like they say to do. Cat turned tail.”