Sanders strained his eyes, expecting to see the small animal responsible for the bending grass. There was nothing. But things were indeed coming at him—the orchard grass betrayed them. In all his life, his eyes had never lied to him. And he wasn’t about to let his brain lie to him, neither. Sanders thought back to his pa, fresh from the Korean War and their visits to the firing range. He and his pa never saw eye to eye except on guns. When his aim was shaky, his pa would slap him on the back a bit too hard, as if to snap him out of a slumber and offer cold advice: You gotta learn to shoot, boy. Someday it may save your life. The most important thing you can remember boy is to hold your breath and make yourself a statue like so. His pa had gripped his gun, forearms bulging, eyes calm. He’d inhaled and then pulled the trigger. The bullet thwacked the paper bull’s-eye and ripped through the haystack behind it into the dirt bank.

Click! Clack! Click!

Sanders aimed just ahead of the first row of parting grass, inhaled, and fired. All movement and sound slowed. His ma had told him great athletes experience everything at slower speeds, and this was how they made remarkable plays. They were given physical intelligence. Everyone has a gift, his ma had said, God bless her. And Bob Sanders did have that gift. In situations that seemed impossibly fast for most people, he was calm.

The shotgun shell ejected from the chamber, to his left. As it reached its peak in the air, Sanders heard a sickening crunch and the first row of parting grass stopped. Thick snot-like blood oozed onto the ground. Then Sanders heard another noise and just about pissed himself.

Huuuooohar

It came from near the shack. The ground trembled under his feet, not all that different from the Silver River in spring as it pummeled floating trees into the canyon walls. Two left, he thought. Sanders aimed at the second row of parting grass, now way too close. The muzzle flashed with brilliant orange as shotgun pellets peppered the creature, spraying droplets of blood. Sanders licked his lips, tasting the foul slime. Bile surged up his throat and he forced it back down with a burning gulp.

The second row of parting grass stopped.

Three left in the chamber, he thought. The ground rumbled.

Huuuooohar