Death & Dying
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"Mark was my firstborn son," my father says, reading the words he has written. "He was a good boy and a hard worker. His mother and I were so proud of him"
But that didn't stop someone from killing him.
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The forest about me is absolutely still.
I shoot.
I shoot at the ground before the bear's massive paws. A scuff of snow flies up. In the next moment I lean the rifle against a tree trunk and grab my bear spray from my coat pocket where I've kept it warm. I pull off the safety clip, and this time I walk toward the bear.
Not away. I'm through with walking away.
