Double Exposure by Michael Lister Read Free Book Online Page B

holding himself so still … his body aches from the tension.
    What happened? Where’d he go? Can he see me? Hear me? I’m not ready to die—not in any sense of the word. So much left undone, so much more to become. Please don’t let me die. Not now. Not like this.
    Eventually, inexplicably, the footsteps begin again.
    Waiting. As he listens to the retreat of the steps, carrying the unseen man further and further away from him, until he can no longer hear them, he counsels himself.
    Not ready to die? You better get ready. Don’t let someone get the drop on you again and not be ready.
    How do I prepare to die?
    Don’t know exactly, but you better figure it out.
    T his treacherous trek through the tall timbers reminds him of the many his dad dragged him on as a boy.
    These same trees were old then, he thinks. Ancient. Now they’re still here and Dad’s gone. Soon, I’ll be no more, and yet they’ll still remain.
    The earth is a graveyard, it’ll swallow us whole, its seasoned trees our headstones.
    Dad loved this land. Loved being outdoors, loved to hunt and track and fish. He had been a man of the land. Unlike Remington’s, his skin stayed brown, tanned—at least the parts that were exposed.
    You can tell how much a person loves something by how much of their free time and disposable income they spend on it. Every free moment, every spare nickel—his dad spent them all out here.
    Early in his life, little Remington had been awakened before dawn, bundled in too-big camouflaged clothing, loaded in the old truck, and deposited deep in the woods. Moving his short legs as fast as he could to keep up with his dad’s long stride, his small boot prints a tiny fraction of the huge craters his dad’s left in the clay.
    Running to keep up, he had trailed his small Bear compound bow through the dirt and leaves behind him, a quiver of short arrows slung over his shoulder continually sliding down on his arm, catching in the crook of his elbow. When bow season was over, it was.22 rifles and.410 shotguns that were every bit as tall as him.
    —Come on, buddy. Try to keep up.
    —I am.
    He’d been trying to keep up with Cole his whole life.
    —You okay back there?
    —Yes, sir. Great.
    He wasn’t. Hadn’t been for a mile or more, but would never tell his dad. Could never.
    —Isn’t this great? Worth missing a little sleep over, huh?
    —Yes, sir.
    There was nowhere he’d rather be than in his soft, warm bed.
    Cole cast a big shadow. Out here. In town. Not only a man of the land, but a man’s man, everybody’s buddy.
    As Remington got older, his Saturday morning hunting trips with his father occurred far less frequently. It was obvious, hunting wasn’t for him. Obvious even to Cole, though he never verbalized it, never in any way acknowledged it.
    Adolescence.
    Fridays.
    Football.
    Dances.
    Girls.
    Late nights.
    Saturday mornings.
    Sleep.
    Guilt.
    No matter how different he and his dad were, Remington had an innate, deeply ingrained desire to please him.
    Alarm.
    Rolling out of bed.
    Stumbling out into the cold dark.
    On occasion, he would be waiting in the uncomfortable, mud-covered old Chevy when his dad opened the door and the little dome light twitched on.
    Look who decided not to sleep all day. How was the dance?
    Cole never showed it, but Remington could tell this small, simple gesture meant more than nearly anything else he could do for his dad.
    Remington never learned to like hunting, but he learned how to handle himself in the woods, learned how to use a gun, learned lessons that just might help him survive the night.
    Dirty jokes.
    Any attempt at imparting the mysterious facts of life came in the form of playful remarks or dirty jokes—both of which made Remington uncomfortable and a little embarrassed for his dad.
    One had a mother throwing spaghetti against the wall to see if it was done and a daughter doing the same thing with her panties after a date. If the noddle sticks to the wall, it’s done. If my