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ALICE MARTIN hoda gripped the tough, pockmarked skin of the willow’s Rsturdy chest. It seemed like she’d been there forever, her feet asleep, sitting on the aluminum stand that was strapped against the trunk of the tree. Like most things, it felt unstable beneath her. Her father, Dixon, sat on an identical treestand set up in the old oak beside her, his shoulder pressed to the tree as if he 98 were trying to force his way inside it. His rifle was tucked under his arm, facing the clearing before him. She never took one of the rifles he offered her. She preferred to sit and watch. “Don’t move,” he warned her. He didn’t need to. She knew the consequences of shifting, snapping, breaking. She knew the consequences of making a move. They’d been there since the early morning but the sun had risen an hour ago and the cool night had sunk into the cushion of mud beneath the tree. Her breath marked the air with mist and she looked down at the ground below her. Perhaps the earth was cold and it needed something warm, a sip of her body’s heat. Perhaps it would suck her under,
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Mar 15, 2018
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