Fallows hit Peter, who jolted into Christian, and all three of them slammed into the hardpan. Christian felt something snag his shirt, as if the fabric caught on a branch for a moment. Then he was flattened under the other two, and all the breath smashed out of him. Fallows kicked, turning onto his side and rolling the rifle down off his shoulder and into his hands in one fluid motion. The barrel settled into the soft underside of the lion’s jaw. The gun went off with a shattering crack that made Christian’s ears ring.

Stockton’s beer slipped out of his hand and hit the dirt, where it spouted foam. “Peter? Peter! The fuck is wrong with you?”

Peter was the first to struggle out from the pig pile. He left Christian and Fallows sprawled in the dirt, both of them panting for breath, as if they’d collapsed together after a hard sprint. The old soldier groaned exquisitely. Peter stood over them, staring down at the lion in a dazed sort of way and slapping his own bottom to get the dust off his shorts. He remained in a foggy-eyed trance until his father grabbed him by the shoulder and wrenched him around. Mr. Stockton’s face was an alarming shade of red, except for a branch of arteries in his brow, which bulged, pale and shiny, in high relief.

“You fuckin’ asshole,” Peter’s father said. “You know what you just did? You just wrecked his fucking trophy. Mr. Fallows paid thirty thousand for that cat, and now there’s a hole the size of a golf ball in its face.”

“Dad,” Peter gasped. His eyes were shiny with shock and grief. “Dad.”

“It’s not ruined,” Fallows said. “Easily fixed by the taxidermist.” He stared up into the darkness. “I might be ready for the taxidermist myself.”

Peter Stockton looked from Fallows to his father and back again with brimming eyes.

“How you like that, Pete?” Christian said. His own giddy voice was muffled and distant, as if he had cotton wadding stuffed in his ears. “Mr. Fallows just saved your ass. Lucky for you! That’s your best feature.”

The Saan bushmen had gone still in the tense aftermath of the gunshot. Now, though, they roared with laughter and erupted into cheers. One of them grabbed Peter by the hands, and another shook a beer and let it foam over the teenager’s head. In a moment Peter went from close to tears to crying out in laughter. Stockton gave his son a resentful, furious look—and then his shoulders dropped and he laughed, too.

Christian felt a cool trickle of air on bare skin and peered down, fingering two long slashes in his shirt. The very white chest beneath was unmarked. He laughed and looked at Fallows.