What was that dot of light in the woods: A firefly, or a campfire?

That motion: A deer goaded to run by the scent of bobcat or the Missionary and his friend settling in around the fire to drink beer and eat food then prowl through the woods to come for her and satisfy their bodies in other ways?

Mary Beth McConnell couldn’t tell. Tonight, as in so much of life, she sensed only ambiguity.

You find relics of long-dead settlers but you wonder if maybe your theory is completely wrong.

Your father dies of cancer—a long, wasting death that the doctors say is inevitable but you think: Maybe it wasn’t.

Two men are out there in the woods, planning to rape and kill you.

But maybe not.

Maybe they’ve given up. Maybe they’re passed out on moonshine. Or were scared off at the thought of the consequences, deciding that their fat wives or callused hands are safer, or easier, than what they had planned with her.

Spread-eagle at your place…

A sharp crack filled the night. She jumped at the sound. A gunshot. It seemed to come from where she’d seen the firelight. A moment later there was a second shot. Closer.

Breathing heavily in fear, gripping the coup stick. Unable to look out the black window, unable not to. Terrified that she’d see Tom’s pasty face appearing slowly in the frame, grinning. We’ll be back.

The wind was up, bending the trees, the brush, the grass.

She thought she heard a man laughing, the sound soon lost in the hollow wind like the call of one of the Manitou spirits of the Weapemeocs.

She thought she heard a man calling, “Get yourself ready, get yourself ready….”

But maybe not.

“You hear shots?” Rich Culbeau asked Harris Tomel.

They sat around a dying campfire. They were uneasy and not nearly as drunk as if this’d been a normal hunting trip, not nearly as drunk as they wanted to be. The ’shine just wasn’t taking.

“Pistol,” Tomel said. “Large caliber. Ten millimeter or a .44, .45. Automatic.”

“Bullshit,” Culbeau said. “You can’t tell it’s an automatic or not.”

“Can,” Tomel lectured. “A revolver’s louder—because of the gap between the cylinder and the barrel. Logical.”

“Bullshit,” Culbeau repeated. Then asked, “How far?”

“Humid air. It’s night … I make it four, five miles.” Tomel sighed. “I want this thing to be over with. I’m sick of it.”

“I hear that,” Culbeau said. “Was easier in Tanner’s Corner. Getting complicated now.”

“Damn bugs,” Tomel said, swatting a mosquito.

“Whatta you think somebody’s shooting for this time of night? It’s almost one.”

“Raccoon in the garbage, black bear in a tent, man humping somebody else’s wife.”

Culbeau nodded. “Look—Sean’s asleep. That man sleeps anytime, anyplace.” He kicked through the embers to cool them.

“He’s on fucking medication.”