I was pissed when the kid darted out of the brush across the road. The car we’d been watching flashed its lights and sped right at him. The kid scrambled over the crumbling concrete barrier that marked the edge of Camp Cypress property. The car skidded to a stop and the driver jumped out, but he didn’t follow. The kid was right.

When the driver walked back to his car and leaned in the driver’s side window, I bolted. I was just over the barrier when I heard the POP! of the driver’s rifle. I ran deeper into the woods and then dropped flat. The kid was not twenty feet from me, hugging the ground. We listened. We could hear the driver grunt as he swung his leg over the barrier. We heard the crunch of his footsteps as he crept into the woods. The kid looked at me with wide eyes and I wanted to yell. What had he expected, breaking cover like that?

Then came a whistling sound over our heads. The driver yelped in surprise as an arrow struck the tree next to him. Then another, and another. He turned and ran back the way he came, leaving us in the woods with whoever it was that men like him are scared to face.