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examining them too closely.  A fair
amount of turmoil was happening below the surface, stirring up a number of
troubling issues he would undoubtedly have to confront later, but, with the aid
of the weed, he was able to keep it all submerged for a while.
              At first he figured the
hiding away was a symptom of depression brought on by the revelation that the
sibling he’d long assumed dead hated him.  Later in the day, after he’d set
aside the pipe and allowed his head to clear, he realized the larger reason was
fear.  His mind kept returning to the crack of that rifle and the accompanying
sound of the bullet taking out a chunk of the support beam.  Despite his
sister’s intimation that he wouldn’t be killed so long as he stayed in the area
right around his cabin, Noah couldn’t help feeling apprehensive.
              Aubrey had changed
drastically during her long time away.  She was mean and vindictive now, a far
cry from the sweet teenager he remembered.  There was nothing but blackness in
her heart where he was concerned.  He tried to imagine her mellowing over time,
maybe even eventually letting go of her anger, but he just couldn’t do it.  It
was far easier to imagine the man named Nick returning at any random time to
fire another bullet from the woods.
              The fear eased somewhat
the next day.  He even spent a good chunk of that morning and afternoon sitting
out on the porch.  This was the defiant part of his personality asserting
itself after a day spent cowering inside like a frightened animal.  The fear
wasn’t completely gone.  An urge to go back inside and lock the door behind him
recurred numerous times.  But he fought through it, trying his best to project
an air of unconcerned nonchalance to anyone who might be watching.
              After a while, however,
he decided it was time to tend to some other things.  He did some work in the
garden, then he pulled up some water from the well and filled several plastic
milk jugs.  He took the jugs into the kitchenette and stored them in the
refrigerator, which, without power, essentially functioned as a large cupboard
or pantry.  Next he did an assessment of his food supply and concluded he’d have
to go on a hunt again soon.
              On a shelf in Noah’s cabin
were several books on off-the-grid living.  These had belonged to his father. 
Noah had read them cover to cover, teaching himself the art of preserving meat
through smoking and curing.  It was a skill that had served him well during his
years alone, at least as much as the lessons his father had taught him.  There
had been a feeling of pride and accomplishment in managing to do it
successfully.  It helped, of course, that searches of cabins in the area turned
up a wealth of the materials necessary to do it properly.
              The idea of going on a
hunt appealed to him for more than the practical reasons.  It would be a way of
taking his mind off the things troubling him.  Thinking about food and the
impending hunt made him hungry, so he opened the fridge and took out a
container of homemade jerky.  He was chewing on a strip of it when he heard the
knock at the front door.
              Noah set the jerky
aside, picked up the rifle, and went to the window by the door.  A tall, burly
man in frayed military garb was on the porch.  He had a rifle slung over his
shoulder by a strap.  He had a thick beard and a lot of scraggly, greasy hair. 
There was a tattoo on his right bicep, but it was too faded to discern details
from the window.  This had to be Nick.  Seeing a second living person in as
many days after all this time was surreal and for some moments Noah couldn’t
help studying him, much as he would a curious specimen of wildlife.  But then
he remembered that this was the man who’d fired at his cabin and felt a surge
of fury.
              He unlocked the door
and yanked it open, aiming the