I walked down the two-track in the dark with the frost crackling under my boots. I climbed the ladder. Eleven rungs. I counted them. I sat down on Wes’s bench with the thermos in my lap and turned off the flashlight and waited.
It is a long time, waiting for light in November.
The creek below me was skimmed with ice along the edges and running black in the middle. I could hear it. The cold came up through the plank and into my bones. Somewhere off to the west a great horned owl was calling, and another one answered.
I talked to Wes some. I am not ashamed to say that. I told him I was sorry. I told him I was sorry I had left his place alone for so long. I told him I didn’t know what I was doing out here, but I was doing it.
It was just gray enough to see my own breath when I heard the gate chain rattle.
Then nothing for a few minutes. Just the creek.
Then boots on the frozen two-track. Low voices. And two shapes coming through the bare trees, orange vests on, rifles slung over their shoulders with the muzzles pointed up.
One was a man of about forty-five. Heavyset, with glasses. The other was a boy. All arms and legs. He could not have been more than fifteen years old.
The boy was carrying a brown paper sack with the top rolled down.
A sack lunch.
I don’t know why that was the thing that got to me. But it was. Somebody had packed that lunch for him at a kitchen counter somewhere. A sandwich, probably. Maybe a cookie. He had been looking forward to this day. Maybe for months.
I knew enough not to let them walk right up on me in the dark. When they were still forty yards out, I turned the flashlight on, pointed it down at the ground, and called out loud and clear.
“Good morning!”
They both stopped dead in their tracks.
“Morning,” the man said after a second. Careful. He put his hand out flat toward the boy without looking at him, and the boy froze.
“Come on ahead,” I said. “It’s all right.”
They came on slowly. The man walked to the foot of the ladder and looked up at me. He looked at the orange cap. Then at the brown coat. Then at the green thermos. And I watched him try to work out what in the world he was seeing.
“Ma’am,” he said. “I think there’s been a mix-up.”
“Could be,” I said.
“We’ve got this stand today. We paid for it.”
“Both of you?”
“A hundred and fifty apiece. Two days.”
“Six hundred dollars,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am.” He tipped his head at the boy. “He mowed lawns all summer for his half. I told him if he wanted to hunt private ground, he could help pay for it.”
The boy looked down at his boots.
“Who did you pay?” I asked.
“The owner. Young fella named Cody. He was supposed to meet us at the gate this morning, but he texted last night and said go on in, first stand past the crossing, and he’d catch up with us at the cafe at noon.”
“He told you it was his?”
“Said his uncle left it to him. Said his uncle built this stand.”
I looked at the rail under my hand. At the little notches.
“His uncle did build it,” I said.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.