One By One by Freida McFadden(33)

“Something howled.” My heart is pounding as I look around. “Nobody else heard it?”

“I think you’re hearing things again,” Jack says.

My face burns. He’s taking her side. Yes, she’s his wife. But he doesn’t love her. My relationship with Jack has been the only thing keeping me going for the last few months. It’s really hard to see him all lovey-dovey with his wife, even if I know it’s just an act.

Noah sits up, rubbing his eyes. “I heard it.”

At that moment, I forgive him for all the toilet paper rolls he failed to change over the years. “You did?”

He nods. “It sounded like a wolf or coyote or something.”

“It was probably just the wind,” Jack insists. “But whatever it was, it’s very far away. I wouldn’t worry about it, especially with the fire going.”

I scramble to my feet and look around us. For the most part, we’re surrounded by trees, blocking my view of our surroundings. There could be a coyote ten feet away, licking its lips, and we would have no idea. There are small gaps between the trees, but there’s no visibility. Especially not at night, with only the small fire and the moon illuminating the clearing. If only we had brought a flashlight.

I hear the howl once again. Is it getting louder?

I step over to one of the trees in the direction of the sound. I squint into the darkness. I can’t see anything. I take another step, my heart thudding in my chest.

“Claire?” Noah says. “What are you doing?”

I take another step, listening for the rustling of leaves. Or the sound of an animal’s footsteps growing closer.

Something brushes against my ankle. Something that feels like fur. I let out a screech and jump away. But when I look down at the ground, there’s nothing there.

“Claire!” It’s Jack’s voice this time. “Stop worrying about it. We’re fine. The animals will leave us alone with the fire here.”

I take a shaky breath. I suppose he’s right. And even if it’s not, what can we do? One of us could stay awake and be coyote watch all night, but I don’t see any volunteers. I might volunteer, but my eyelids feel like lead.

“I’m sure it will be okay,” Noah murmurs.

I nod and settle back down on my makeshift bed of leaves. There’s not much we can do either way. I’ll just have to hope for the best.





Chapter 17


ANONYMOUS



My dad taught me how to shoot in our backyard.

We had been planning a hunting trip for weeks—just me and him. It ended up later getting canceled because of an unexpected business trip to Toledo. But at the time, I thought we were going. And my dad said I had to know how to shoot if we were going hunting.

He set up a bunch of tin cans on a cardboard box. He said we were going to practice until I could shoot all of them. Our neighbors wouldn’t mind. Most people in our town owned guns and were proud of it.

We stood in the grass together, eyeing the tin cans like they were wild animals. My Orioles baseball cap kept the sun out of my eyes. It was a straight shot.

“So here’s what you do, sport,” he said. “You keep your feet apart. Square your shoulders. Keep your right foot just out in front of your left.” He helped adjust me until I was standing just right. “Good. Now you put the buttstock of the rifle near the centerline of your body and high on your chest.”

He took a step back, examining my pose. “Elbows down.”

I listened carefully, trying to do everything he told me. He showed me how to bring the rifle to my head and press my cheek firmly into the stock. Then he taught me how to aim.

“Good job,” he said. And I flushed with pride. “Keep both your eyes open. Don’t pull the trigger—squeeze it. You want constant pressure.”

I took a deep breath. I aimed at the can farthest on the right and squeezed the trigger like he told me.

I missed by a mile.

“You gotta relax,” he said. “You’re too tense. Take a breath before you shoot. Then squeeze the trigger on the exhale.”

I took a deep breath. I shot at the can again. I missed, but I came closer.

“Good job,” he said. “Now try again.”

I stared at the can. I imagined my mom’s face in the center. I took a breath, then I squeezed the trigger. I heard the ping of the bullet penetrating the metal.

“Great!” He clapped me on the back. “You did it!”

We spent the next hour practicing shooting. I couldn’t wait to go hunting with my dad. Just the two of us.

Finally, my mom came out into the backyard, her hands folded across her chest. She was wearing a tight blue sundress and had a face full of bright makeup. She smelled like flowers. When my dad was away, she wore sweatpants and undershirts. She didn’t bathe for days.

“Haven’t you been out here long enough?” she whined.

“A kid’s got to know how to shoot,” my father said.

She flashed me that same look she always gave me when my father paid more attention to me than he did to her. She wanted him to herself.

I still had the rifle in my hand. As I looked at my mother, I imagined a tin can where her face was. I had gotten to be a decent shot in the last hour. If I aimed the rifle at her, would I make the shot? I could always say it was an accident. I was a beginner, after all.