Tall weeds in the front yard. A porchlight with moths flying around it. Rusted Chrysler LeBaron sits on gravel. White wall tires. Sun is coming up. Men trace tracks with guns in their hands. A deer behind a bush.

It is November. He drinks coffee and eats dry toast. White bread. Nothing fancy. He hears a gunshot in the distance. Early bird gets the worm. He says. The straight lined man picks up another piece of toast, holding it between his teeth as he pours more coffee. Leaves fall from oaks.

He opens the front door of the trailer and stands on its porch, runs his hand over splinters and nails coming loose. He can see his breath. Another gunshot. This time, it’s closer. Too close.

Sun has risen completely now. Another shot is fired. The wiry dude goes back inside and gets his shotgun. He loads it with buckshot.

As he closes the door, he hears a scratchy voice. A fat man spitting tobacco. Red Man Chew. Put the gun down, the hunter says. I said, put the gun down.

The man does as he is told. What’s this about?

Shhhh. You’ll scare away the deer. The fat man laughs. Got any money? Any rare coins?

He shakes his head, no.

What have you got?

I got that LeBaron.

Go get the keys.

Here, pulls them from his pocket. He tosses them to the bearded slob.

Don’t you call nobody. You hear?

Deer run as the engine turns. Loud music plays when he takes off. The crunching of dead leaves.