4.08.12 - 
Rio Narro
I can still hear the soft splat of my bare Caistealian canine feet splashing through thick mud. It felt like the greatest fun - jumping, dancing, covering every inch of my new clothes Mom had just bought me. But at eight years old, a little mischief is all part of growing up: flinging handfuls of mud because someone laughed, them hurling it back, me ending up dirty from head to paw. Those were the best times. I wish I could be that carefree again.
I dashed down the dirt path toward our farm, skirting weathered fence posts topped with a broken solar lamp nobody had fixed in years. Beyond the neighbor’s field, where harvest drones were already being tuned for the season. No streetlights this far from town. Just open sky and the scent of turned dirt. Birch was small, maybe ten thousand souls at most, but it was home.
I didn’t once worry Mom would be mad. I imagined her crossing her arms, offering a playful “Oh, you…” then sending me off to clean up before dinner. Sure enough, she wasn’t angry, just mildly annoyed at the extra washload, but she laughed as she talked about all the extra work I was causing her. I could’ve really gone wild, leaving muddy paw prints all over the cabin’s hardwood floors, but even then I wasn’t that big a hellion.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, leaning against the door frame with a mischievous smirk.
“Oh no!” I yelled, already sprinting away as she grabbed the garden hose from beside the house and gave chase. A minute later, I was drenched head to toe, laughing so hard I could barely run. She swung a towel at me, smacking me gently across my snout.
“See?” she teased, still laughing. “Much better.”
I miss her so much. Mom was amazing. My blue eyes and the white streaks in my brown hair were her gifts to me. I even think my fuzzy ears came from her.
“Do me a favor?” she asked softly. “Tell your father dinner will be ready in ten minutes. And wipe your feet before you come inside!”
“But where is he?” I asked.
She bent over, hands on her knees. “He’s out by the silo, tuning up the harvest gear. Just a few days until the season starts!”
I took off down the road, the evening sun drying my fur, warm breeze carrying the smell of ripe wheat. Through the fence, past the fields, toward the twin silos.
When I arrived, oil and metal filled the air. Dad was crouched at a makeshift bench against one silo, parts scattered around him - wires, metal panels, propeller blades, a cracked solar cell. He glanced up, knees flecked with grease, and smiled.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said. “Did you dive in a puddle or something? You’re soaked.”
“Mom got me with the hose,” I grinned back.
“Surely she did that just for fun,” he said, smirking up at me from his crouch, laughing a little. “Surely you didn’t do anything to deserve it.”
“Nope!” I trotted up to his workbench and rested my muzzle on the edge, eyeing the scattered parts. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sure you didn’t.” He rubbed a dirty cloth over some round component I didn’t recognize.
“Why is the drone in pieces? Harvest is almost here.”
“That’s why,” he said, not looking up. “Fixing it now means we don’t have to fix it when we need it most. Better to do the hard work before it’s an emergency.” He held up a small green chip. “New control board. Should make it fly steadier this year.”
“Okay,” I said, fascinated by the mess of parts.
“You like this kind of thing?” He picked up a socket wrench and dropped it into my hand.
I spun the head back and forth, listening to it click. “I think so.” I wasn’t sure, honestly. It wasn’t like I’d never helped out before, but most of the time I’d rather be out with my friends.
“Well, say the word and I’ll teach you. Maybe even teach you to drive one day.”
I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Okay… ten more years.”
“Ten years!?” I grabbed the edge of his workbench. “I’m not waiting ten years!”
He laughed, not looking up from his parts. “Then I’ll have to find some other way to put you to work. The rifle’s still off limits, though.”
“You said you’d teach me!” I pressed my muzzle against his arm.
“I said your mother and I agreed you’d get lessons when you turn ten.”
“Early birthday present?”
He finally looked up at me, something warm in his eyes, and then back down. “That’s a real early birthday present, Rio.”
I let out a long sigh, slumping my shoulders. “You say you’ll teach me all the farm skills whenever I want, but scaring off the predators is part of farm life, right?”
He chortled in mock surprise. “Trying to out-logic me now?” This time he actually paused, leaning his side against the bench while his tan-and-white tail swayed gently. He must’ve been in a good mood.
“The other boys already know how to shoot,” I said. “They joke I’ll never learn because I’m a girl. I just want to help.”
He rubbed the cleanest part of the back of his hand against his forehead. “Well…if I talk—”
“Can I watch you!?” I blurted, pointing toward the metal trash bin near the shed. “Those cans have been sitting there for months!”
He gave me a concerned smile and thought it over. “Okay. Grab some can, but when we’re done, you clean up the mess. Deal?” He held out his hand.
“Deal!” I slapped his palm.
Minutes later, I crouched a little way off, watching him. Four tin cans sat on the fence, looking tiny and far away. He settled the big rifle against his shoulder, its wooden body dark and worn. He got real still, like a statue, and then the whole world exploded with a loud bang that made my ears ring.
“You missed!” I called as the echo faded.
“Yup,” he said, working the bolt to reload. He tapped the dials on the scope.
“Why tweak it every time you miss?” I asked.
“It helps you zero in,” he explained. “The barrel and scope aren’t always aligned. You also correct for wind and distance, other small adjustments.”
“I know that,” I laughed. “But why not hit the can on the first try?” I couldn’t resist a little sass.
He laughed, lowering the rifle. “You think this is easy? All right, get over here.”
My heart raced. I darted forward and climbed onto the bucket beneath his foot. From behind, he wrapped his arms around me and guided the rifle.
“Your hands go here, and your cheek goes here.” He set my grip against the wooden stock, the smell of gunpowder and old wood heavy in the air. I was too small to get perfect form, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to look through the scope!
“So… what now?” I whispered. He held me steady, but really he was doing the aiming.
“Now,” he said, pressing his head next to mine as I peered through the lens, “don’t tell Mom about any of this, or she’ll serve me up to the whole neighborhood for dinner.” He nudged the scope again. “Finger on the trigger.”
My heart jumped as I slid my finger into the guard. This was it! Exciting and serious all at once.
“If you hit one,” he whispered, “maybe I’ll let you do farm guard duty so you can chase off those swing vultures before they eat our melons.”
I paused, watching crosshair weave around the can in the scope. It was harder to steady than I expected. “Why do we have to shoot the swing vultures? I don’t want to kill them.”
He cleared his throat, ready for a lesson. “They eat our food. Every melon they steal is lost income at market. They multiply fast and swoop in every spring when the fruit ripens, so they’re pests.”
I bit my lip. “But they’re hungry, too, and their babies hatch right at harvest time.”
He softened. “I get it. Tell you what: you can shoot near them to scare them off instead.”
I nodded. “That might work. I don’t want to shoot something just for trying to survive. It’s not their fault.”
I felt his cheek press warm against mine as it lifted into a smile. “You’re wiser th—”
A crash from the direction of the cabin. Both of us flinched. Mom’s voice cut across the field, sharp and unmistakable. Dad shifted, lost his footing, and went down. I wobbled on the bucket. The rifle went off - my first trigger pull - and then I was on my side in the dirt next to him, both of us wide-eyed, and Mom still going.
She had been watching the whole time.
Dad sat up with a smirk, lifting the rifle clear. “I think the whole neighborhood’s about to find out what baked Caistealian fox tastes like.”
I laughed and scrambled up. We jogged back toward the cabin together, and I could already hear him working to smooth things over, and her not having any of it. I fell a few steps behind and threw a glance back over my shoulder. Through the hair across my face, past the fence where we’d been standing - three cans.
Made with Bullet