HUNTING SEASON

She stayed behind to bring new life into a dying world.

“They’re coming,” he whispered in her ear—as if she didn’t already know.
“They’re near,” he said again, voice trembling.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was too focused. Too far gone. And he couldn’t calm his nerves long enough to help.
She turned to him with a look that said everything.
Go.
“You have to go now.”
He hesitated, glanced at the two small figures crouched in the corner.
She nodded.
“Take them. I’ll catch up when I can.”
He wrapped the children in a blanket—one in each arm—and ran.
She watched his silhouette disappear into the trees, swallowed by forest and night.
She exhaled.
She pushed.
She breathed.
The pain crested, and she saw him—her son.
His first cry split the silence, high and miraculous.
She smiled, just for a second—just long enough to meet his eyes.
Then: the clock of a gun.
Then: the whistle of a bullet through the air.
Then: the first one struck—tearing through her wool cap, her curls, her skull