“Lemme get it, Paw,” begged Will quietly.

Joe hesitated, then said, “Come here.”

Will stepped beside him. Joe placed the heavy, double-barreled gun in Will’s hands. Will hefted it to ready position, leaning way back.

“Hey,” I whined, “when’s it my turn? Will—”

“Shush!” growled the old man. “Don’t scare that bunny. He’s a-coming.” To Will he said, “Push the safety.” The beagles were racing down the hill, baying as they crashed through the corn. The rabbit was somewhere close in front of them, running silently for its life. Will raised the shotgun to his shoulder, legs spread wide, leaning back from the waist under the weight.

“Push hard against your shoulder,” Paw whispered. “It’ll buck. Don’t forget the second trigger.” He stared into the corn toward the cry of the hounds. “Here it comes. Lead him by a foot.”

Will peered down the sightline between the barrels, cheek pressed against the stock. The rabbit leaped from the thicket of corn fifty feet away and raced across the lane of stubble. Will fired—a violent blast—and seemed to miss.

“Shoot again.”

Barrels swinging as he led the rabbit, Will pulled the second trigger. The cottontail somersaulted through the air, thumped backside first against the bottom rail of the fence and came to rest.

“Good shot,” says the old man.

“Lucky shot,” I said. “You missed the first time.”

“Maybe,” Paw said. “Maybe he missed and then again maybe that rabbit was runnin’ so fast he couldn’t stop even though he was already dead. Stop at that speed he’d be wearin’ his asshole for a collar.”

The beagles began to worry the dead rabbit. “Git!” shouted Paw and they backed off, whimpering, eyes shifting uneasily from Joe to the rabbit and back. “All right Will, you shot your rabbit now clean it. Got your knife?”

Will nodded, pulled the jackknife from its pocket on the side of his high-top leather boot, flipped the blade out, picked the rabbit up by the ears and opened it with one quick slit from sternum to anus. He pulled out the steaming guts—entrails, stomach, liver and lungs—and tossed them to the dogs. He wiped his knifeblade on the soft fur of his kill and handed the rabbit to Paw. Paw stuffed it into the game pocket inside the back of his coat. “Okay boys, we got our meat, now let’s get this goddamn corn patch cut and shocked.”

He kept us going into twilight. The old man was doubling on me now, doing two rows to every one of mine—even Will could hardly keep up with him. I longed for the sound of Mother rapping on the bell by the kitchen door: for suppertime.

The full moon of November—following close upon the setting sun—is the longest moon of the year: the harvest moon, the hunter’s moon. We saw it rising round as a banjo through the mists above the eastern hills when finally we heard the bell.

“Suppertime!” I cried, dropping my machete in the dirt. My back ached, my hands ached. I jammed my armful of corn into the final shock and bolted for the house.