the heavy pack strapped over his shoulders feels like the ghost of his kill trying to pull him to his death .
Once he reaches the top of the mountain , the ground levels for a bit before it goes to a downslope . The branches overhead block out the moon , but his headlamp spots the terrain . He notices something peculiar , there are no tracks in the mud … not even his own from when he left earlier in the day , like someone had smoothed over the trail . He thinks it ’ s odd but is too tired to pay it much mind . Another hill , and he ’ ll be back at camp where his family awaits him . The wind sways the trees all around him . Branches snap and dry autumn leaves sing in a resounding chorus , but there are no night birds , or at least he can ’ t hear them .
“ Michael !” He thinks he hears his son ’ s name called behind him . He turns only for his headlamp to fall on a dancing bush that settles once the wind calms .
As he begins his final climb , he can see the orange glow of his campfire at the crest of the hill . A silhouette in a big jacket emerges black before the billowing flames . He ’ d recognize that long hair blowing in the breeze anywhere . “ Babe !” he shouts .
She doesn ’ t reply .
He opens his mouth to holler again but sees something in his periphery . His son ’ s face emerging from the bush beside him . “ Michael ?” he says , but the face retreats . He runs over to the bush and separates the branches with his hands , and … there ’ s no one there .
When he looks back to the top of the hill , his wife is gone .
13