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I hear the deer before I see him, though he makes less noise than a squirrel—the gentle crunch of snow, a snapping twig, the soft whuff as he roots around for dead grass. I can hardly believe my luck.
As quietly as falling snow, I raise the butt of my daddy’s Hawken rifle to my shoulder and peer down the muzzle. A crisscross of branches narrows my view. The deer must be allowed to wander into my sights, but that’s all right. I am patient. I am a ghost.
I’ve tucked myself into a deadfall, the result of an ancient, dying oak looming above me. Snow fills the cracks between branches, creating a barrier to the wind. I can barely see out, but I’m almost warm. The snow around me clinks and tinkles like bells, melting in the early morning warm snap. The hem of my skirt and the petticoats underneath are ragged and soaked. If the girls at school saw me now, I’d hear no end of it, but it doesn’t matter. We have to eat.
Which means I have to make this shot. If only I could conjure up fresh game whenever we needed. Now that would be a useful magic.
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