Free How it Ends by Laura Wiess

deer and shoots us because, yes, it does happen.
    I wore mine at breakfast and cracked her up.
    My father says the hats are not pink; they’re Day-Glo orange, but just to tweak him, every time we see someone wearing one we say, Oh, what a cute little pink hat!
    My father says someday our smart mouths are going to get him punched in the nose.
    Our property is posted NO HUNTING and so is Gran’s, because we believe everything needs at least one place in the world where it can rest and be safe.
    There’s nothing we can do about the guy who built the cabin next door, though. He shows up in his business suit late every Friday, changes into full-blown camo, and plays weekend warrior, building a blind to hide behind and putting out acorn blocks and other bait to keep the hungry deer around so he doesn’t actually have to get off his butt and work up a sweat trying to kill them. He doesn’t eat them, either. Just saws off the bucks’ heads for trophies and leaves the does there to rot.
    Gran and I found one of the carcasses once when we were out walking her property line during an early spring thaw. The doe’s corpse was horrible—sunken, gnawed, and rotten—and heartbreaking, since it looked like she had been trying to get back to the safety of Gran’s woods and just couldn’t run fast enough.
    She hates this guy for a lot of reasons but mostly because when the does are killed it means the fawns lose their mothers after having them for only maybe six months and are left to fend for themselves through winter, the harshest season.
    She gets all freaked when she says it; her chin gets really firm, and she adds in a big voice (even though no one is arguing with her), “And since rut usually occurs before the season opens, the does they’rekilling are pregnant. How do you gut a pregnant doe, for God’s sake?”
    This is when my father and Grandpa turn green, mumble a lame excuse, and sidle out of the room so as not to attract any Amazonian woman outrage.
    Sometimes before they leave, Grandpa will wink at me, then tiptoe over to Gran pretending like he’s scared of her and either swoop down and give her a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek or pinch her butt, which drives her crazy, and then, laughing, hurry out of the room.
    It’s really cute and always makes Gran blush.
    I hope me and Seth are that cute someday.
     
    It started snowing today. Me and Sammi were out in the courtyard along with half the student body and Seth came over to us. He smiled, reached out, fluffed the snowflakes from my hair, and said, “You look like a snow bunny with big chocolate cupcake eyes.”
    While I stood there hopelessly melting, he added, “Merry Christmas if I don’t see you again before the end of the day,” and ambled away.
    Oh, God.
    Maybe I should just go back down to Crystal’s and let karate guy throw me around a little more. I know it would hurt less than this.

Chapter 10
Hanna
    Christmas was small but good.
    Gran cried when I gave her the five cases of cat food, then cried harder when we gave her the giant bags of cracked corn and the extra veterinary gift card my parents had bought before my father was laid off.
    She got even more emotional when she gave us our gifts, a homemade cookbook of all her favorite recipes for my mom, a batch of homemade peanut butter fudge for my father, and an excellent pair of fat white crocheted mittens and a scarf for me.
    “What?” I said, crouching in front of her and taking her trembling hands when she started crying. “I love them, they’re perfect, I swear. What?”
    “I wanted to do so much more,” she said finally, gripping my hands hard.
    “Oh, stop, come here,” I said, rising and giving her a hug because now I was starting to get all teary, and if I went, I knew my mother would, too, and then we’d all have a very soggy Christmas.
    After we ate I went up and changed into the hot new black angorasweater dress Crystal left for me under our tree (I gave her the same dress in red)