I prop my gun against the tree and pull the knife from the belt at my waist. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, approaching cautiously. Neck or kidney? He’ll fight death until the very last moment. They always do. I know I would.

His antlers still pose too great a threat for me to slice his jugular. He squirms uselessly as I near, head tossing. It needs to be a quick thrust, aimed just right. I raise the knife.

My hand wavers. The gold sense is so strong now, its buzzing so merciless that I feel it down to my toes. It’s almost good, like being filled with sunshine. It means gold is somewhere within reach.

Deer first, gold later.

I plunge the knife into his left kidney. He squeals once, then goes still. Hot blood pumps from the wound for mere seconds before slowing to a trickle. It steams in the air, filling my nose and mouth with bright tanginess. I’ll have to work fast; if that catamount is anywhere near, she’ll be here soon.

He’s too large for me to carry over my shoulders. I’ll have to skin and butcher him and take only the best parts. The great cat is welcome to the rest, with my blessing.

I place the point of my knife low on his soft white underbelly. The gold sense explodes inside me, so much hotter and brighter than the scent of fresh blood. I can’t help it; I drop the knife and dig furiously at the snow—dig and dig until I’ve reached a layer of autumn rot. Muddy detritus jams under my fingernails, but still I dig until something glints at me. Sunshine in the dirt. Warmth in winter.

The nugget unsticks from its muddy resting place without much effort; this time last year I would have had to dig it out of frozen ground. I scrape away mud with the edge of my sleeve. It’s the size of a large, unshelled walnut and rounder than most nuggets, save for a single odd bulge on one side. Must have washed down the creek during last spring’s flood. I gauge its heft in my palm, even as I let my gold sense do its work. Close to ninety percent pure, if I don’t miss my guess.

Worth at least a hundred dollars. More than enough to buy meat to last the winter.

I sit back on my heels, nugget clutched tight, staring at the animal I just killed. I don’t even need it now. Waste not, want not, Mama always says. And Lord knows Daddy could use a fresh venison stew.

Today is my luckiest day in a long time. I shove the nugget into the pocket of my skirt, pick up my skinning knife, and get to work.