164 The Meadow “No, you can’t,” my dad says. “We’re hunting.” Some woods are at the far end of the meadow. A little creek runs through the woods. I can’t wait to get there because then we can stop, at least for a while. No more pheasants fly up along the way. My brother says I’m bad luck and my dad tells him to shut his trap. I’m glad my dad says that. Beside the creek, we sit on some logs. My dad’s hunting jacket has a zillion pockets. From one of them he pulls out three sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. He hands one to me, one to my brother. The sandwiches are bologna and cheese with mayonnaise on white bread. I don’t like those kinds of sandwiches. But my dad likes them so that’s what we have to eat. I like the special egg salad sandwiches my mom makes. She uses Dijon mustard with a bit of paprika on romaine lettuce and French bread. My dad always asks what’s wrong with regular egg salad. I bite the bologna and cheese sandwich. It tastes so awful I want to spit it out, but I know if I do, my dad will make me pick it up and put it back in my mouth. After I take a few bites, I’m desperate for water. I get up to go to the creek. “Take your shotgun with you,” my dad says. “Why?” “Don’t ask why. Just do it.” I snatch it so he knows I don’t like the idea, but I don’t dare say anything because then he will really get mad. The water in the creek looks golden because of the rusty-looking rocks at the bottom. I lay the shotgun in the grass beside me, scoop up some water in the palm of my hand, and slurp it. It tastes like weak tea. When I scoop up a second handful, something explodes into the air on the other side. It sounds like a pheasant, but I don’t know for sure, because it shocks me into a panic. Without thinking, I grab the shotgun, bring it to my shoulder, and fire at the first thing I see in the air. My right ear is ringing, but I hear my bother say, “He hit it,” as if the unfathomable has just happened
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