Free Wintering by Peter Geye

the undergrowth of the cedar swamp for deadfall. They found four good logs and loaded them into the canoe and paddled back to their campsite, the gunwales not more than six inches above the waterline.
    After all those days of going strong it was strange to idle around the campsite, but that’s just what they did. Harry roused a huge fire and Gus went to work on the deadfall, quartering all the logs before splitting them with the hatchet. They hung a rope between two trees and washed their clothes and hung them near the heat of the fire to dry. Gus made a pot of coffee, and by noon they’d done all the chores.
    Harry sat with his feet toward the fire and took the Remington apart, carefully wiping out the barrel after all the rain the day before. Gus watched him, feeling drowsy and hungry and in some back room of himself, like he wished he’d never joined this expedition. His father must have read his mood, because he said, “You look like you came out on the wrong end of a bad night’s sleep.”
    “I’ve had better. That’s for sure.”
    Harry was oiling the pins, squinting down his nose at his work.
    “I was going to fish,” Gus said, “but I think I’ll take a nap.”
    Harry kept working on the gun. “A nap would do you well. I’ll wake you for dinner.”
    So Gus climbed under their canvas and wrapped himself in the sleeping sack. He slept hard that afternoon. When he woke it was to a sound like a baaing sheep somewhere near. His right arm and shoulder tingled from sleeping on them wrong. He lay there listening to the strange sound while the wind ruffled the canvas. After a while his blood washed the prickling out of his arm and he sat up. Through the tent flap he could see Harry up the shore, standing in plain sight beside a boulder the size of a bear and aiming the Remington across the lake.
    Gus had seen that look on his face before—a great many times—and he knew there was game in his sights. He crawled up to the flap and peered out. On the opposite shore, a fawn stood with its hind end to them, its bleats carrying across the water on the strong wind coming down the cliff. He could still see vestiges of the fawn’s spots.
    Gus swept his glance between the deer and Harry for what seemed ten minutes. Twice his father lowered the gun and closed his eyes with the countenance of a man at prayer. When he opened his eyes again he retrained his sights on the fawn. Then he noticed Gus crouching in the tent, aimed a third time, and fired.
    Gus was surprised to see the fawn merely flinch and buck. It seemed impossible that Harry would have missed so easy a shot, but Gus felt relieved when the fawn only bawled louder.
    Harry slung the Remington over his shoulder and walked briskly toward him. Once within earshot, he shouted, “Grab the hunting knife and come on.”
    Gus rummaged through the pack and found the knife, put on his sweater and boots, and stepped out of the tent. The fawn still hadn’t moved.
    “What’s going on?” he said.
    “You’re not going to believe this.”
    They jumped into a canoe and crossed the narrows. Harry splashed into the knee-deep water and took a few cautious steps forward. The fawn looked at him and baaed frantically before burying its nose in the rocks. Or what Gus thought were rocks. In fact it was the fawn’s mother. The doe was headshot, her legs splayed like a marionette cut from its strings.
    Gus was having trouble sorting it all out. Between the fawn and the doe and his having just woken up, he thought that perhaps he was only dreaming. He tried to wake himself again, better this time, but found himself still standing at the canoe, watching his father step cautiously toward the fawn, his hand outstretched as though the little deer were a dog.
    When he was within twenty feet he turned and glanced at Gus, looking confused himself. He shrugged and widened his eyes as though to ask,
What should I do?
    Gus shrugged back.
    Ten feet from the fawn Harry stopped, stood tall, and