Punching the pole into the end grommet, Sid said, “When I was a kid, my grandfather hunted everything that walked, crawled, or flew. That’s next on the list. You’d think, if I served my country and worked on cars, I’d be better at stuff like this.”

“You probably are, but you weren’t born a soldier or a mechanic, either. I’m sure you had to learn those skill sets.”

Sid told Hank, “Never thought of it that way, but you’re right. I did have to learn everything. My granddaddy was a mechanic. I learned a lot from him growing up. Then, when I joined the Army out of high school, Corps of Engineers, got shipped off to Vietnam for the war.”

“A vet?”

“Yeah. I was over there for two years. Dozed down a lot of jungle. Built base camps and laid steel for C-130 runways. Came back stateside, did another year, and when I got out, I moved back here and found a job working on cars.”

“I wanted to join the military, but it wasn’t in the cards for me,” said Hank. There was a lull in the conversation as the two men threw the rain fly over the newly constructed tent. “At any rate, I’ll let you and Travis get back to it. You need anything, don’t hesitate to give me or Hunter a shout.”

Sid and Hank shook hands again, “I really appreciate that.”

Hunter’s father had a way with people. He just knew how to talk to them. How to relate to whatever problem they were wrestling with at that moment. Always seemed to be at the right place at the right time. Always knew how to help. There was no second-guessing the situation. He just reacted. That next day, they all went fishing. Hank and Sid became good friends, kept in contact.

Now, twenty years later, watching the father struggle, Hunter gets to his feet, starts walking, crossing over the grass, then the loose gravel of the driveway, and back onto the grass. He approaches the father, who looks up at him.

“Need a hand?” Hunter asks him.

Dubious eyes take in the long hair, the biker garb, and all that ink. Apparently deciding that this stranger is no threat, the father says, “Unless you got a gallon of gas, might not be any use at all.”

Studio tan, frosted blond hair, muscular—looks like a gym rat that tripped and spilled a jug of bleach on his head. Hunter kneels down, removes the thickest hunks of wood, grabs some twigs and pine needles. “Trick is, you just need to start small, build up to bigger pieces. Got any more paper?”