“Probably just looking then. I doubt he fires on a coyote, no matter how big.”
Lynn looked back at the pack. The leader turned, irritated at his comrades’ lack of commitment, and pinned one to the ground by its neck. He let it up slowly, and both the smaller ones rolled over, exposing their submissive bellies. “Think he should?”
“Normally, I’d say no, don’t waste a bullet on a coyote, especially a thirty-thirty. Meat’s too tough. You burn up more energy chewing it than you get from eating it.” She outstretched one hand for the binoculars, and Lynn gave them over. “Big Bastard though . . . he needs shooting.”
Lynn saw the flash from the sun glinting off Stebbs’ rifle as he put it down.
“Asshole,” Mother muttered. “He fires that gun so little he probably never has to clean it. Which reminds me: bring our cleaning kits up to the roof when you come.”
Lynn dumped the last of the rainwater into the barn tank, shaking every last drop from each bottle, cup, and bowl. The rain still clung to the long grass as she made her way to the antennae, soaking her jeans and driving a chill into her skin that would stay with her all evening.
“I was thinking about hunting,” Mother said as they cleaned their rifles. Her tone was casual, but the remark brought Lynn’s hands to a stop.
“So early? There hasn’t even been a good frost yet. The meat will never keep.”
“I thought we might as well smoke the meat this year instead of freezing. A smokehouse won’t draw any attention we don’t already have. The meat will taste better cured, store better, and it’s something we can do now to worry about less later.”
“But what about firewood? How much will it take to cure the meat?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Mother answered as she rammed the pipe down the barrel of her gun. “You only want green wood for a smokehouse fire, most of what we burn in the basement stove is—”
“Seasoned,” Lynn interrupted. “How much green wood?”
“Four to five days’ worth, depending on how big of a deer I bag.”
Lynn jammed the ramrod down her own rifle barrel unnecessarily hard.
“You’re not happy about it,” Mother observed.
“No, I’m not. It’s stupid to use wood for smoking meat we won’t be alive to eat because we froze to death.”
“Stupid to store up the wood to die warm and starving.”
Lynn finished cleaning her gun in silence, loaded and cocked it, set the safety, and placed it on the roof. “I just don’t understand why we can’t do things the way we’ve always done. Wait for winter, kill a deer, freeze the meat.”
“Because we can’t eat frozen meat if we’re on the run. Smoked meat, we can. Things have changed,” Mother answered, her gaze drawn to the southern horizon. “So we change with them.”
Lynn rested by the sheet of tin, mesmerized by the sun glinting off the hundred plastic bottles. The batch hadn’t had the full eight hours of sun the day before because of the rain, but today the sun was out in force, raising the temperature of the tin enough that Lynn could feel heat rolling off the bottles. Mother’s scope flashed as she moved about on the roof, keeping an eye on everything.
To have an afternoon of rest was rare. Usually Lynn would cut wood while the bottles heated but Mother wasn’t comfortable letting her out of sight with the threat from the south still fresh in her mind. Instead she sat on an upside-down bucket tapping the wire handle against the side to keep herself from sliding into a doze.
She’d lost a bucket once, before she could swim. She hadn’t stood that much taller than the bucket, and the weight of the water flowing into it had pulled her forward. The fear of losing a bucket had forced her to hold on well past her last breath, the wire handle had sliced into her tiny fingers as she kicked for the surface but refused to give up her grip. Red dots had filled her vision before Mother was able to get down from the roof and dive in after her, unfastening her clenched fingers from the handle. They’d sat on the bank, dripping together, Mother so shaken that she didn’t reprimand Lynn about the lost bucket, or the wasted water dripping off their clothes.
Her lost bucket rested on the bottom now, not far from the edge. Lynn used it as a marker, a sign that they hadn’t had enough rain in the dry summers. The year before she’d been able to see the white plastic grip on the top of the handle, floating only a foot below the surface as the level dropped. Each day brought it into clearer focus, driving a spike of fear into her heart and inviting the flood of certainty that this would be the year they didn’t make it. This would be the year they died. She could have grabbed it then, saved from the shame of losing it so many years ago. But getting it back meant a slow death by thirst loomed nearer.