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watched the man through the flames of the
campfire. His movements grew quicker, more agitated, exacerbated by
the flames dancing before him.
     
    Still his father did not move.
     
    The man spit on the ground. Curse you. And curse your
son. He turned, shuffling his slow drunken gait back towards the
woods.
     
    A wet log in the fire popped. The man spun,
unslinging his gun, dropping to one knee as he did so. He moved
impossibly fast for someone who had seemed so drunk a moment
before.
     
    Jeremiah’s father drew the revolver and shot the man
in the heart. He was dead before he hit the ground. Jeremiah was
safe.
     
    ***
     
    Jeremiah knelt in the gravel to hide the key under
the front wheel of the truck, as he always did. He stopped and gave
a small laugh. He would not be coming back. There was no reason to
hide it. He stood, setting it in the middle of the hood, holding it
there for a moment to make sure it wouldn’t slide off. Once he was
sure it would stay, he traced a large circle in the dust around it
to draw attention to it. Someone would see it when they found the
truck.
     
    Jeremiah set the pistol next to the key on the hood
and unslung his backpack, setting it in the dirt at his feet. He
unbuckled the top of the pack, flipping it open. A leather holster
lay atop the gear in the pack.
     
    He took a deep breath and picked it up. Last night
was the first time he had touched it since Jonathan died. It had
still been in the boy’s room, next to his bed where his wife had
left it after the funeral.
     
    Jeremiah stepped into the room with a spinning head
after half a bottle of whiskey. Everything was still in place
exactly as Jonathan had left it six months ago. A glass of water
sat next to the little boy’s bed, half evaporated, dirty from dust
in the air and time.
     
    The smell of the boy was the worst part. It made
Jeremiah’s chest ache. It was as if Jonathan had just stepped out
of the room a moment ago. It made him seem just out of reach, just
out of touch, trapped just one second away, forever.
     
    Jeremiah looked down at the holster in his hands,
bright in the sunlight. It was oversized by modern standards. It
was made to carry a big gun, a long time ago. The leather was soft,
worn down with time, and faded. At one point a star had been
stamped into it. All that remained was a faint outline. The holster
had been passed down in the family for five generations. Father to
son, father to son, father to son.
     
    He threaded it onto his belt, and pushed the revolver
down into it until it was snug. It was a perfect fit.
     
    Jonathan had loved the holster. Jeremiah had given it
to him for his sixth birthday. He had wanted his son to have it as
soon as he could. To be part of the men in the family who had worn
it.
     
    Jeremiah had assumed he would use it to carry his toy
pistols, as he had when he was a boy. But Jonathan was funny. He
used the holster like a belt pack, a way to carry his plastic toy
figures, not guns.
     
    Jonathan collected superheroes, little toy action
figures that stood two inches tall. His room was filled with them.
The holster was the perfect solution for carrying his collection
with him. He strapped it on with a belt and wore it every day
around the farm, the giant holster dwarfing his little hips.
     
    Jeremiah touched the holster with the palm of his
hand. It felt smooth and solid. It was strange to think the last
time he had seen this holster it had been attached to Jonathan. He
clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He would see Jonathan
soon enough. He would set things right with his son.

    Jeremiah started hiking, following the gentle climb
of the ridge through the fields and tamaracks. He closed his eyes,
forcing himself to recall the face that time was taking away.
     
    He walked on, lost in memories and thoughts,
oblivious to the world outside. His feet crunched in the dry grass
of summer, his boots scuffed against the rocks left exposed, and
his heart ached from the emptiness