I followed slowly, my steps silent, each one sinking deep into the new snow. The trees whispered above me. Every crack of a branch sounded like judgment. 10 minutes later, the trail veered downhill toward an old logging road. I saw him through the trees, stumbling, holding his side, coughing into the cold. The gun in his hand was shaking badly, clicking empty.
He’d been firing at ghosts. I didn’t name the rifle. I wanted him to see me. Ian, I called out. My voice traveled like smoke through the night. He spun around almost slipping. Hunter, please, man. I didn’t I didn’t do half of it. It was Dad. It was them. You were there. You held the door shut. I just I couldn’t stop them.
I nodded once. Neither could she. He started crying loud and broken, falling to his knees in the snow. I’m sorry, he screamed. I’m so sorry. You’re not sorry, I said, walking closer. You’re scared. He raised the empty gun like it meant anything. I kept walking. He clicked the trigger again and again. Dry fire, hollow metal.
