<Click>
	Timmy flinched reflexively as he did every minute when the dusty Panasonic™ flip clock/radio changed its numbers to indicate another period of time had passed. He read the numbers carefully. Seven-oh-nine. Not time yet. He lay there stuffy and uncomfortable in the lumpy twin bed next to his snoring grandfather, feeling the coiled unyielding springs press themselves into his back in tempo with each rasping, sour breath Papa Will took. The smell was simultaneously familiar and foul, making the stomach queasy while filling his heart with joy. The odor, of course, meant that Papa Will had been at his bottle of Dewar’s, which Timmy’s grandmother malevolently said made Papa Will’s breath smell like sewers. That didn’t matter now. Mimi and Papa Will didn’t live in the same house anymore. His grandfather said loudly and often that Mimi had made him choose between his hooch and his cooch, and that he had made the correct choice.
	Where Papa Will lived now was a ramshackle rust-brown and white trailer, which was half supported by crumbling cinder blocks that swayed perilously when a gully washer came through to wash out the empty liquor bottles that occupied the intervening space between them. Within the perpetually half open door, moldy lime shag carpeting strained betwixt non-insulated, faux-wood paneled walls. “No great shakes”, Papa Will would ceremoniously intone before shaking the sawdust out of his tattered overalls upon arriving at his humble abode, “but I never wrote home about anything anyhow.” There was an air conditioning unit in the living room window jury-rigged into place with duct tape which his grandfather refused to turn on, especially now that Indian summer had passed, bringing somewhat cooler temperatures to the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. Timmy lamented this, thinking that the sound of the unit would drown out the terrifying sounds of the floor and walls settling like an old man into an armchair and the whippoorwills in the adjoining fog-laden forest crying “whip ol’ Will, whip ol’ Will”, forever promising beatings without pity to his grandfather.

<Click>
	Timmy’s wide green eyes flashed expectantly towards the clock again. Seven-ten. Almost, but not quite plum, he thought, not quite understanding the phrase, but it was something his grandfather said as often as he could, so Timmy had resolved to use it as well. Only one more minute, but Timmy knew better than to rouse Papa Will early. They had spent the surprisingly cool, yet humid day at the saw mill where his grandfather was a foreman. Timmy didn’t know what this meant, but he thought it must have something to do with sharp talking the tar-black boys while they went about slab-cutting and loading logs onto the cacophonous tractor while waiting for the ancient replacement belt to come flying off at random directions and deliver a ghost whoopin’ on the flesh of the unobservant when a log turned sideways and jammed the blade.
 For this reason, Timmy spent the sweat drenched hours reveling in the din and playing Matchbox cars in the sawdust well away from the tractor, which made him itch incessantly but he enjoyed it more than anything in the whole world entire. Papa Will would pause when the wind would shift direction to blow diesel exhaust in Timmy’s direction to excuse himself from his work to “check on the welfare of his blood and kith”, but Timmy suspected that it was just an excuse to dust off his overalls and take a long draw from his dented pewter flask and grumble about the lazy folk in his employ.
	His grandfather worked hard keeping the boys in line, so it had been a special treat when, after stopping at Margaret’s Fill ‘N Fuel (Marge’s Pump ’N Dump, Papa Will would call it) for a bottle of Crush and a tin of Railroad Mills snuff, and to pinch the aging owner’s behind and get called a souse for his troubles, Papa Will sat Timmy in his lap in the driver’s seat of the green truck with the loud ass mufflers and told him solemnly that not only was he going to let Timmy drive, but was also going to take him out snipe-hunting at the old observation tower that adorned the crest of Lookout Peak. His grandfather had made him promise not to bother him while he took a nap, so Timmy had spat the sticky orange soda residue into his hand and extended it eagerly to seal the deal before the offer disappeared like Papa Will’s flask would when Timmy’s mother would arrived the next day to whisk him back home to normality and boredom.
     “Driving” meant that Timmy would perch like a king on the patched knees of his grandfather’s faded, pine-smelling dungarees to survey his dominion while Papa Will surreptitiously piloted the vehicle with two stained and calloused fingers from his left hand wrapped around and holding Timmy in place in lieu of a safety belt. The right hand, as always, clutched both the ancient, mangled flask (which Papa Will clung to as if fearing that Mimi would descend upon and whisk away like God’s own justice) and the gear shift which he operated deftly with quick, certain movements punctuated by the <pung> sound of the sloshing vessel as he secreted another draw from it. Timmy knew better than to tell any of this to either his mother, who would worry needlessly over his welfare, or Mimi, who would have a conniption fit and keel over dead like she always promised she would, eventually.
 So it was thus that they had arrived at the “Mobile Mansion” as Papa Will termed it. The truck ground to a halt, throwing up dust from the yard sparsely populated with unkempt tufts of what might have been called grass had there been more of it. They had traversed the yard, Timmy traipsing gleefully ahead of Papa Will’s shambling, metered gait carrying the flaked enameled metal lunch box containing one half-finished can of Vienna sausages and three spent banana peels and mounting the precariously stacked pile of decrepit cinder blocks that comprised the ascendance to the trailer. Bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet he saw Papa Will cast a wary eye at a mangy disheveled terrier that crouched begging beside the worn red clay walkway.
Timmy, in his haste to be inside thinking that somehow this would warp time in such a fashion that it would bring the time for departure on their next adventure closer, had not noticed the graying black mutt. Papa Will cocked his leg back in preparation for a kick to send the flea-infested nuisance on its way before eyeing Timmy sidelong and reining himself short. He motioned for Timmy to bring the lunch box over and, reaching inside, produced the remnants of the sausages which he flung toward the tree line that loomed ominously close to the rear of the trailer. The mutt bounded ex post haste after the meal, presumably his first in days judging from the slats revealed beneath the stretched, diseased skin. Papa Will cast a thinly veiled rancorous gaze after the dog as it withdrew into the dark recesses of the forest, watchful of anything that would try to steal this unexpected bounty. 	“Satch take you,” had drawled in his thick Southern accent, and it was a malediction.
<Click>
	The sound of the clock shook Timmy from his reverie and he was somehow surprised to gaze upon the numbers he had been waiting on. Seven-eleven. Two hours had passed. Timmy rolled over and was startled to see his grandfather’s stony visage fill his vision, immediately imposing even with eyes closed and his dusty brown hair, going fast to gray, in disarray. Timmy mustered his courage and lifted his arm in preparation for an attempt to rouse Papa Will, when his grandfather’s rheumy grey-green eyes flashed open abruptly. Timmy jerked back convulsively, teetering on the brink of rolling off the bed, but Papa Will pulled him into an embrace that filled his nostrils with the acrid pine and sweat odor of his grandfather’s work clothes.              “You tryin’ to steal on me boy?” Papa Will inquired as he inclined his upper body in the bed, leaning in to peer at Timmy with a façade of interrogation. His eyes became slits and his ample eyebrows drew down creating deep furrows in his leathered forehead. This had been played out a thousand times between them, but the mask was still more than enough to intimidate a boy of seven, even knowing the remainder of the verses in this exchange.	“No, sir,” Timmy replied, not needing to try to feign the deepest respect and submission. His chin tucked neatly into the hollow at the base of his throat and his eyes were saucers, flecked green and hazel within pools of white.
	“Sir?” Papa Will mused, rolling the word around his mouth as if something distasteful. “Only officers and assholes are called sir. Which do you take me for?” 	“Both,” the boy replied in a surprise improvisation of the routine. The words broke the false tension of the moment and Papa Will released a rumbling chuckle that sent the bed creaking and shaking.
	“You might make a man yet,” his grandfather replied, adjusting suspender straps that had slid off the broad shoulders of his coarse red wool work shirt and sliding to the foot of the bed to plant his thick callused feet on the carpeted floor. As Papa Will began his stretches to ease the stiffness that age, a day of hard labor, and the poor mattress had bestowed upon him, Timmy slid from the sheets still dressed in preparation for a hasty departure to snake gracefully through the maze of carelessly discarded clothing and several empty whiskey bottles to the door. He took an immediate right into the bathroom with a torn out piece of spiral bound notebook paper adorning the plywood door which read “MEN’S ROOM” written in over-large scrawling block script….Timmy’s own handiwork.	After relieving his bladder of the remnants of the orange soda, Timmy turned on the spigot in the stained sink crusted with shaving cream to wet his hands to run through his unfortunate double-crowned mop of disheveled brown hair. Giving it up as a bad job, he eyed the Donald Duck toothbrush that his mother had to remind him three times to pack and wet it also to give the illusion of use. Returning to the bedroom to find his grandfather fully risen and nearly dressed, he stomped his hole-ridden socks into a pair of sturdy olive and yellow Steel Shank rain boots that his grandfather had purchased for him on consignment at the local Ben Franklin.
	“Grab your coat,” his grandfather directed in no uncertain terms. “There will be rain if my luck holds true and unlucky.” Following his own advice, Papa Will stomped across the room heedless of obstacles and directing kicks at mounds of clothing that might impede a direct path to his open closet to retrieve his O.D. green Army jacket left over from his time in the service. As Timmy donned his yellow vinyl rain coat, the same style worn by almost every child born to lower middle-class families, he turned to see Papa Will standing beside the closet, jacket still unzipped over his overalls and holding his keys in front of him with a serious, quizzical mask. Papa Will turned abruptly towards Timmy with a sudden smile, eyes squinted kindly and sparkling mischievously.
	“Why don’t you go crank the truck?”
	“All by myself?” Timmy inquired, half elated and half suspicious of another of his grandfather’s jests, which were a byword in the local community.
	“All by yourself,” Papa Will confirmed, prompting Timmy to bolt forward to snatch the heavy keyring from his grandfather’s hand as if the opportunity might be taken from him if he hesitated. As Timmy wheeled about to sprint toward the door like a rogue with his loot, his grandfather’s paw grasped the crook of his right elbow, reining him up short. His grandfather cocked his head slightly to the right, squinted one eye suspiciously and tilted Timmy’s head up with the thumb and forefinger from his left hand to look him square in the eyes.
	“Do you remember how I showed you? Neutral, the clutch...”
	“I remember papa,” Timmy said soberly, interrupting the litany his grandfather had used every time when demonstrating the procedure. “But you forgot the seatbelt comes first. I can do it.”
	“I’ll be right out, then,” Papa Will stated with a proud look on his face that heightened Timmy’s mirth, a feat that the boy would have thought improbable only five seconds prior. Timmy spun unabashedly away from his grandfather’s grasp and ran out the bedroom door after avoiding two mounds of clothes with swift, sure skips and sprinted down the hall, bushy mop of hair bouncing in rhythm to the thump of vinyl boots on the gaudy, thick carpeting. Meeting the front door with the palm of an outstretched hand, he took the steps as a bird in flight and felt a slight twinge of pain in his left knee as the ill-fitting rain boots provided a less than stable landing. Barely feeling this on the wings of his excitement, Timmy plowed down the walkway, churning up red dust in his wake and slid to a stop at the driver’s side door. Almost yanking the chromed handle free in his haste, he scrambled into the seat alone for the first time in his life.
	The sun hung low, large and red in the western sky just above the ridgeline of the Appalachians through the windshield, temporarily blinding Timmy as he attempted to survey the controls. As he looked down to sort through the massive array of mysterious keys that he often thought there weren’t enough locks in the world to justify, two perfect purple circles, ghosts of the sun, remained to obscure his vision. He didn’t need sight, however, to find the ignition key as it was instantly recognizable by the texture of the rubber band wrapped quadruple around its squared bow. The cab of the truck, heated by the last few hours of afternoon sunlight and thick with the pungent aroma of Papa Will’s travel flask suddenly became oppressive to Timmy, so he deftly inserted the key into the ignition and reached across his body to roll down the window, afterwards remembering while in the vicinity to grab and stretch the lap belt across his lap and latched it securely.	“Safety first,” he mumbled aloud to himself, amused at the thought of how safe his mother or Mimi would think this was. Mimi, of course, thought very little of anything his grandfather did since the divorce, and would probably “have his balls in a Mason jar” as she often said, whatever that meant. A low rumbling sound caught Timmy’s ear just above the chorus of crickets, dissonant amongst the croaks from the frogs in the pond that lie a ten minute walk down the foot path that meandered through the dense copse of maple, fir, and boxelder trees that dominated the surrounding landscape in the foothills. Timmy paused, distracted from his excitement, to identify the source of the noise.
	Craning his neck to the left and scanning the tree line lit brightly by the waning light of the sun, his first pass saw nothing of note, but on his second sweep of the forest in the darkening recesses of the weald, he centered on two glowing, green points of light. Timmy’s veins turned to ice, the very marrow of his bones chilled almost to cracking. He felt a thud on the seat next to him, a was distantly aware in the depths of the fear that overwhelmed his senses that the keys had fallen from his hand which was trembling, still frozen in the act of inserting the key into the ignition.
His mind fought desperately against itself, wanting to reach for the keys while hesitant to take his eyes from the lights. These were surely eyes, he thought, eyes belonging to some creature spawned of hades come to whisk him away to be devoured greedily in the darkness of the forest. Timmy sat there transfixed, unable either to turn away or shout for his grandfather. His mouth was a small, trembling rictus, moving silently as it tried desperately to voice words that would not escape. He became conscious that the eyes were growing larger, indicating that the monster was advancing on him. In moments it would be free of the confining woods, revealing its hellish form.
	Instinct took over and Timmy did several things at once. His left hand grabbed desperately for the window crank, clammy palm slipping on the black plastic knob in his haste to close the entry point. As he bent over to retrieve the key ring, which had fallen from its precarious perch on the edge of the seat into the floorboard, his arm grazed the gearshift. His left foot slammed down onto the clutch, depressing it to its limit and his head crashed into the steering wheel, releasing a long blasting peal from the horn that resounded among the encompassing hills. Miraculously, Timmy found the correct key almost immediately. He dared not look back toward the trees as he completed closing the window, transitioning his left hand to the steering wheel. Jamming the key home with his right hand, he pumped the gas with his right foot and twisted the ignition. The green pickup roared to life, the din of the mufflers shattering the evening and the truck lurched forward….and died, sputtering.
	Timmy waited breathlessly for what seemed an eternity for the evil to take him, then looked up to find Papa Will standing inches from the grill of the truck, frozen in mid-step with a confused look of fury and consternation painted on his face. Timmy gestured wildly toward the woods, attempting desperately to warn his grandfather of the impending doom that was about to befall them both. There, at the tree line, sat the mongrel dog that his grandfather had fed upon their arrival home, wagging his tail in anticipation of another meal and lolling his tongue with an expression of vapid happiness. Timmy looked back through the windshield at Papa Will, who was peering around the corner of the truck. His grandfather squared himself up and planted two large fists on his hips, facial expression fading slowly from concern and indignation as he sized up the situation to one of disappointment and mild amusement and he spoke. 	“Well, shit.”



Joan’s

	Darkness and cold began to descend upon the countryside swiftly and together as the green pickup wound its way up the serpentine road that ascended the first range of the local mountains. Timmy sat sullenly in the passenger seat, twisted by conflicting emotions. He was, at once, ashamed of his display of cowardice, dismayed by how disappointed his grandfather was with him, bitter at being relegated to the passenger seat, and uneasy as he anticipated the endless jibes he would endure over the incident. To Papa Will’s credit, however, he said nothing about it. The only sounds emanating from the driver’s side of the cab were the occasional sloshing sounds as he hefted his flask for another draw and the wet metallic <splat> that punctuated a release of snuff spit into an empty can of Miller High Life that he had retrieved from the bed of the truck. Otherwise, the miles passed in silence without even the comfort of the strains of Hank Williams that usually radiated from the eight track deck in tinny tones due to the absence of bass on the antiquated device.
	As the miles of road and feet of elevation passed behind, Timmy began to suspect that the silence was intentional as to allow him to reflect on the situation. Grown-ups loved doing that sort of thing. Timmy’s thoughts gradually began to shift back to the mission at hand. He was actually going hunting with his grandfather. Sure, Papa Will had taken him fishing. He had been taught to fish both with a pole like the city folk with their delicate constitutions and with his hands. Noodling, as the country folk called it, tested the nerve and the will, as Timmy had learned firsthand on one occasion when Papa Will had yelped and withdrew not a catfish, but his own empty bloody, mangled hand. Snapping turtles, (cooters, Papa Will called them) were good for that, stew, and nothing else. Worse than that was the tale of the man that had stuck his hand into a nest of water moccasins and left only a bloated floating corpse to tell the tale. Timmy suspected that last was hogwash, but it was difficult to tell, sometimes, when his grandfather was being serious.
	Timmy had also learned how to shoot Papa Will’s .410 at the occasional rattlesnake or water moccasin that frequented the surrounding woodlands, but never at king snakes. This trip was different, though. The old shotgun was miles behind at the Mobile Mansion, and the only firearm likely to make an appearance was his grandfather’s .38. Timmy only assumed it was tagging along because, even though it was never visible, it would make an appearance whenever Papa Will kissed the flask too many times and someone got mouthy. Timmy had never seen the gun fired, but the waving around of it was generally accompanied by other shots fired in aggression: words. Usually those words were “filthy communist” or other such epithets as to call into question someone’s Southern heritage. “Southern” was always to be capitalized, even when spoken. His grandfather had explained that this was very important, but could never adequately explain why.
	Timmy began a cursory visual inspection of the bulges evident on the outside of the multitudes of frayed pockets lining the outside of his grandfather’s overalls and found no indication of the whereabouts of the pistol. He began to suspect that it must be in the glove box, secured behind the lock hasp Papa Will had secured to the dash with duct tape in lieu of the original locking mechanism that had been broken, likely in one of his grandfather’s fits of rage. Wondering why Papa Will carried the gun at all times, a thought occurred to Timmy and he chanced to speak it aloud.	“You were afraid.”	“Say again, boy?” Papa Will inquired, shaking his head as if to dispel a fog that had settled on his mind.	“You were afraid. Back home. When the dog…”	“I thought you’d lost your damn mind, son,” Papa Will declared, managing a chuckle even while uttering the words. “Not to mention you almost run me over with my own goddamn truck. Imagine it. A frightened boy finishing the job the Germans couldn’t do in two years, try as they did. Heh.” His grandfather hefted his flask and swirled it in front of his face, inspecting by sound the amount of precious liquid left. This produced a forlorn frown, followed by an extended draw as he tilted his head back and depleted the contents, punctuating the exercise with an exaggerated <pung> as his lips released their death grip and he released a protracted “ahhhhhhhhh”, mimicking the idiots on those soda commercials. 	“I didn’t mean to,” Timmy said. “Almost kill you I mean. With the truck.”	“You planned on doing it some other way then?” Papa Will asked wryly, but his face showed that he was clearly thinking of something else and was speaking only to entertain the boy. Timmy ignored the jibe, knowing what was about to happen.	“We’re taking a left up at Joan’s, aren’t we?” He asked sullenly.	“You got me pegged, boy. And what if we are?”	“You promised we would go snipe hunting.”	“And so we will, just like I said,” Papa Will assured, “Just as soon as I shore up our supplies. You must be hungry by now, too.”	At that moment, Timmy’s stomach betrayed him, rumbling at the mere mention of food. In all the excitement of the day, he hadn’t thought much about it. He had eaten little besides his sawmill lunch and a stale month-old lemon cookie spirited from his grandfather’s cupboard while Papa Will was on the commode. Timmy weighed his need for sustenance against the unavoidable loss of time and the inevitability of his grandfather going full-blown drunk and found the trade unsavory, but as Papa Will was judge, jury and, in Timmy’s ass’s case, executioner so he conceded with a churlish nod and buried his hands in his jacket pockets.
	As anticipated, a few quiet miles later the pickup suddenly accelerated, prompting Timmy to reach overhead to latch on to the “oh shit” handle in preparation for what was one of his grandfather’s more reckless habits. Papa Will shot Timmy a mischievous sidelong grin as he placed his flask securely between denim covered thighs and reached with his now empty right hand toward the dash to depress a button that instantaneously concealed the road, hitherto bathed in two converging cock-eyed cones of light. Try as he might to continue pouting over the change of plans, Timmy couldn’t help but crack a nervous smile as the darkness engulfed the cab of the truck, the loss of one sense heightening the sensation of the other four.
	The engine, formerly a chorus of mechanical perfection, leapt several octaves in pitch and many more decibels in volume as Papa Will geared down. Timmy felt the weight re-distribute on the sticky vinyl seat as his grandfather shifted his weight to the driver’s side door and spun the wheel frantically counter-clockwise. The ass end of the truck lost traction and swung wide to the right due to the sudden momentum shift. Timmy felt a brief moment of panic and exhilaration as the rear tire on his side left the road and teetered perilously on the edge of the mountain road, sending rocks careening into the nothing between certain ground and certain death. He became cognizant of the steady stream of curses, most of which he had gleaned from listening to some of his grandfather’s more impressive invectives, flowing relentlessly from his mouth between gleeful squeals. Papa Will skillfully yanked the wheel right, then left to stabilize the course of the truck. He then gave the disc a hard turn back to the right and laid into the gas pedal as the truck entered a loose gravel driveway, sending an impressive spray of small rocks flying to land with a dense rhythm of small thuds as they impacted multiple objects that adorned the front yard of the establishment, to which they had arrived in reverse.
	Joan’s was a house of ill repute. In fact, the term “house” could only be applied as a generalization. If houses could talk they would surely protest the comparison. The structure was coated in several score coats of fading, flaking whitewash with splintered patches of oak, poplar, and the occasional chestnut showing through the multitudes of breaches of the less than protective coating. Chinked between the motley layers of half-rotted wood, cakes of dry, crumbling clay and mud jutted out like scabs protruding from layers of unhealed flesh. The edifice seemed eternally ready to return to the earth despite having stood more or less unchanged for better than a century.
To the right of the lean-to front porch supported by four evenly spaced if not evenly planed four by fours and overlaid with thousands of ancient greying greenwood shingles was a rock and clay chimney laid against the side of the structure like a gnarled witches finger. No smoke was in evidence emitting from this apparatus but, nevertheless, even in the darkness the presence of pungent, acrid smoke was prevalent over the shit smell from the nearby jakes. A pale, wavering amber light escaped two paneless windows and gave the cabin the appearance of keeping a lazy but watchful gaze over the grounds.  From within, the sounds of merriment that had only just begun drifted over the choir of forest creatures warming up for their evening symphony.
Timmy exited the vehicle and sped around the front of the truck, churning up sprays of pea sized gravel in his wake to join Papa Will who was busying himself by extricating the fabric of his trouser legs that had gathered into the folds of his crotch during the ride up the mountain. The boy instinctively started to reach for his grandfather’s hand, but froze midway and retracted the hand before Papa Will had time to notice. He resolved that he would not cross the threshold of this monument of manhood as a child this time. With Timmy in his wake, Papa Will entered the cabin, the unoiled hinges of the door protesting their arrival with a hideous screech that set Timmy’s teeth on edge and made his eyes squint.
Timmy’s eyes began to water as he surveyed the scene. In the middle of the squalid shop floor, surrounded by dusty pine slat shelves which adorned the untreated log walls and the rectangular polished granite slab on the right side of the room that served as a counter, two tables covered in a red-on-white plaid bolt of linen and their occupants dominated the tableau. By day the tables served to seat and feed tourists that flocked to the area in fall to witness the turning of the leaves local fare such as apple stack cakes, chow-chow, molasses and biscuits made by Joan herself “since the dawn of time”, so Papa Will said. Currently, the tables were pulled together lengthwise in order to host a heated game of poker that, due to the sobriety of the participants, was in its infancy.
Occupying the seats nearest the door with their backs to Timmy and his grandfather were two middle aged dark men who were, like Papa Will, wearing denim overalls and coarse wool shirts lightly dusted in sawdust. Timmy knew these fellows from the sawmill. Big Moe, and Little Moe. As far as Timmy knew, these were the men’s real names. Big Moe was huge even seated, a full 6’5” and better than 300 pounds. Little Moe was “little” only compared to Big Moe, only about two inches and a steak sandwich smaller. They were not related, but both spoke as if with a mouth full of ball bearings in deep rumbling tones and both were black as midnight at new moon. They were often disparaging of each other in public and bickered incessantly, but you never saw one without the other.
Seated across from the Moes was Zeke, an elderly white gentleman with curled wisps of alabaster hair sprouting from beneath a wide-brimmed Victorian hat. Billowing cones of smoke issued from the gaps in his yellowed teeth and from the corn cob pipe that he held in a gnarled skeletal hand.  He wore cracked spectacles that glinted as his head bobbed like chicken perusing the play at the table. On Zeke’s right was the fattest man Timmy had ever laid eyes on. His clothing was at odds with the other men at the table. His white button-up Oxford shirt was unblemished with the exception of two growing sweat stains, one beneath each armpit. Indeed the man seemed to be melting as sweat poured from every bit of skin that showed and the obese man mopped constantly at his brow with a silk handkerchief held in one chubby paw. On his card-holding arm we wore a gaudy white gold wrist watch and beneath the table his creased trousers and polished black leather shoes all but screamed “city”.  His face was swollen as if he had been stung by bees and the fat gathered around small beady eyes that suggested a sinister nature, settling on Timmy as he peered over his cards at Timmy. The scene was as if drawn from an Appalachian Alice in Wonderland. At once, Papa Will was in his element.
“Well lookie’ we got here,” he drawled, eliciting sudden glances from the two men seated on the far sides of the table and the Moes’ shoulders drew up as one.
“Will Welch,” Zeke exclaimed, hefting a large earthen jug with a contorted thumb twisted through its finger-loop and took a long draw from it and visibly shuddering as the brew took effect.
“On a bet? Never me. Same can’t be said for these here,” Papa Will declared, indicating the Moes with a sweeping gesture of his right hand and fixing his gaze at the backs of their heads. “What’re you boys doin’ here anyhow? I know you don’t make enough to be losing at cards, which is likely the case if you play ‘em like you work.”
“Git fucked bawse,” Big Moe grumbled. “We ain’ at work an’ you gots no say here. I knew yo’ ass was gunna say some bullshit when I hears yo’ crab ass voice. Stop bumpin’ on me Lil’ Moe, or is you layin’ down for bawse like always.” This last was directed at his companion, who had half-turned to look side-eyed over his left shoulder at the newcomers. Little Moe’s eyebrows were climbing his forehead, and his eyes filled the upper half of his face above a gaping mouth surrounded by greying whiskers.
“Watch yer damn mouth around my grandson,” Papa Will cautioned, shooting a covert wink to Timmy, who smiled in amusement. Big Moe hunched in his seat and his head jerked around suddenly to verify that Timmy was indeed present, and his pitch face look as a child caught in some act of mischief. This produced a round of hearty laughter from the assembled folk, Zeke issuing a wheezing cackle that sprayed some of the remnants of his recent drink across the table. Even Big Moe had to laugh at his own misfortune, even as he mumbled nodding apologies towards Timmy and mouthed silent curses at Papa Will and Little Moe, who had thrown back his head and gripped at his sides as his body shook and he drummed his feet on the floor in a fit of uncontrolled mirth.
“What brings you around, Will?” Zeke asked as the laughter subsided and play at the table resumed. “Haven’t seen you up the mountain since last….” He seemed to struggle with what he was about to say as he eyed Timmy. “Since last month when Timmy was up with you. Not that it’s not good to see you.” Big Moe’s eyes rolled at this last and Little Moe was openly incredulous, fixing Zeke with a flat stare. Timmy didn’t know which of the statements Little Moe was more disdainful of. He knew his grandfather made the fifteen minute drive up the mountain at least twice a week , so the first was an obvious lie, and while both Moes were obedient on the job (to a point), neither cared much for Papa Will’s constant ribbing and verbal abuse.
“Need fuel for the fire,” Papa Will answered, meaning moonshine, and striding around the table he extended a hand to reach for the brown jug on the table in front of Zeke. “And a flour sack. Is Joan still alive? Need some of those apple cakes for the boy. We’re headed up top on a mission.”
“It ain’t that damned good to see you,” Zeke said, withdrawing the container protectively into a crook of his right arm. “You got money, enough for shine anyway. Sure as hell ain’t spending it on home improvements.” He then directed an honest gap-toothed smile at Timmy and addressed him, dismissing Papa Will for the moment, adopting the tone that all adults use when speaking to children. “What’s this fool Will got planned for y’all on the ridge ‘sides him getting drunk?”
“We’re going snipe hunting,” Timmy stated boldly, then immediately grew sheepish under the discerning eyes of so many adults that fixed him with a mixture of amusement, confusion, and one of outright incredulity.
“Snipe hunting, phaw,” spoke the fat man for the first time in a high, tremulous, yet obviously well-educated voice that was completely unexpected given the man’s considerable girth and snapped his plump fingers with a <crack> under his bulbous nose. “That’s for snipe hunting. That old codger there’s been telling you stories out of school, young man. Why, everyone knows……” He trailed off under the weight of multiple unfriendly gazes, not the least of which belonged to Timmy himself, who had decided on the spot that he did not like the man. The fellow’s unsightly physique might be countenanced, but a fat mouth with a fat body could not be overlooked.
“Say,” started Papa Will, “Who is this feller knows so much about so much? Can’t say I rightly know him. Does he belong to one of y’all?”
	“That’s my nephew Bobby’s boy, Jude,” answered up Zeke with a face that showed the embarrassment that Jude’s should have, replaced quickly with a scornful, impatient look that collected all of his great nephew’s ample person. “You know Bobby, Will? Moved down Atlanta way oh… twenty-four years gone I reckon. Didn’t keep much with country livin’ an’ high-tailed it to the big city. Made his self a pile in real estate.” This last had enough venom to put even a cow down, but Jude never flinched. “Seems nephew Bobby didn’t teach ol’ Jude much about manners or when to keep his trap shut, but he did set him up with his own real estate gig. That’s why he’s here, so to speak. He wants to buy out Seven Eagles’ restricted land. Thinks I can talk him off of it.”
	“He’ll never sell,” replied Papa Will, matter-of-factly. “Good thing, too. It’s dangerous. What you wantin’ to do with all that land anyway?” he asked Jude. “I know Seven ain’t done nothin’ but fill it up with empty whiskey bottles, which is at least an honest job of ruining good land and still probably better than what you city folk have in mind.”
 	“We plan on building a resort up on Lookout,” replied Jude. “That part’s done. We would love to have Mr. Eagles’ land as well for other purposes. Had a mind to maybe lease it out for an amusement park. You say you’re going up top, then? I don’t think so. It’s posted since yesterday afternoon and we can’t allow trespassers. Not even fine folk such as yourselves, to be sure,” he added hastily, with an obviously patronizing hand gesture. His eyes glinted in the afterglow of his apparent victory, and one could almost see him counting the money he was going to make off of his venture.
The Moes shifted uncomfortably in the awkward silence that followed, then huddled together and made hastily invented excuses and uttered goodbyes to everyone as they almost fell over each other in their haste to be away. As the shuffling of boots and muttering of curses faded out the door, across the porch, and down the steps, the uneasy silence stretched out interminably and Timmy began to feel the storm gather around his grandfather. Zeke hooked his jug and took a long draw, finishing with an unabashed wipe of his face with the back of a sleeve and began to stoke his pipe so forcefully that the glow from inside of it reflected twin furnaces in his glasses. Jude was oblivious to any of this and continued, not knowing when to leave well enough alone.
“What’s this you say about danger?” he queried. “More snipes I suppose. Foolish folk nonsense. I am serious about the posting, mind you. The earth moving equipment went up this morning, and I don’t want any old drunks or kids up there causing any damage to private property.”
“He didn’t mean it, Will,” Zeke began pleadingly. Then he turned to Jude. “Boy you’d best start with an apology ‘less you want me to figure a way on explaining what’s about to happen to you to your daddy.” Indeed, Will had begun to walk toward Jude in slow, impending paces, flexing both hands with a purpose. Jude sat there like a stump, impervious to his surroundings or feeling like his money protected him from any harm from the common clay. Timmy could feel the room growing smaller with each step.
“Will!” a female voice cried, and Joan herself swept into the room with a swiftness and grace that belied her age. She wore a white serving dress topped with a flour-encrusted kitchen apron that fell to the floor giving her the illusion of hovering across the room and she swooped between Will and the table and drew him down for a motherly kiss on both cheeks. She patted Will on the face with a hand that looked as if she’d been in the tub too long and her plain, yet friendly face seemed to pull all the tension out of the room like the sun chasing the mid-morning fog out of the valley below. Papa Will responded by acquiescing to this unspoken plea for peace by returning a friendly smile after sparing one more brief, but meaningful glare in Jude’s direction and pinching Joan on her backside, earning him a light-hearted series of slaps.
Behind her trailed Seven Eagles wearing blue jeans of the latest fashion held up by a thick, worn leather belt adorned with the gaudy anodized belt buckle featuring a bald eagle in flight that was, as he said, his style. His shirt was a yellow that sat at odds with the deep brown perpetually unsmiling face that Timmy though could represent the entire race if they carved it out of stone and sat it in a museum somewhere to collect dust. Under the crook of his left arm he carried his straw cowboy hat that was never more than arm’s reach away, and in his right hand dangled a jug that was the twin of the one Zeke had been suckling on since Timmy’s arrival. It was obvious he had come to pick up a jug of Zeke’s famous third run of shine, and had been ambushed by Jude, him knowing from Zeke that Seven would be along.
In his wake, to Timmy’s delight, was Seven’s daughter. Melissa was several years older than Timmy, in the full bloom of awkward adolescence. Her clothing was as unlikely as the English moniker Seven had bestowed upon her. The girl wore dirty, worn, and patched denim dungarees above a pair of equally broken Keds. A black Dukes of Hazzard tee shirt complete with the General Lee in flight completed the ensemble. The only article of clothing that distinguished her as female was the multicolored My Little Pony wristlet that had been given to her by Timmy and encircled her right arm. Anyone questioning this item would get a much closer look at it as it carried with it a blow to their eye. Judging from the shiner that she was currently sporting below her close-cropped, boyish hair, someone had recently been antagonizing her about it or her ungainly progression into womanhood. Timmy knew better than to think the black eye was evidence of a loss. Seven, knowing white boys for the devils they were, had encouraged this rough and tumble behavior in his daughter, thinking it would serve not only to help her protect herself but, he had selfishly confided to Papa Will on occasion, it might also keep the boys, especially the white ones, away.
Melissa took notice of Timmy immediately upon entering the room and crossed quickly to where he stood, now separate from his grandfather and Joan who was fawning over Timmy from where she stood in the path between Papa Will and Jude, who were still eyeing each other disdainfully. Melissa pulled Timmy aside excitedly and removed a handful of small rocks from turned out pockets that turned out to be arrow heads she had found while tracking her father’s drunken footsteps through the woods in search of him after he had hit the bottles especially hard one evening. As Timmy watched with unfeigned interest Melissa produced each in turn, showing where and how the chips were taken from the stone to form them, even telling him where more might be found.
	Seizing the opportunity presented by Melissa’s distraction, Papa Will motioned Seven over to have a discreet conversation along with a pull from his recently purchased jug. The two drew close together, talking in low, quick words as Zeke and Jude settled into a game of two-handed gin. Sensing the moment for fisticuffs had passed, Joan departed back into the kitchen and reappeared shortly thereafter carrying a tray of apple cakes that she dispersed to everyone, with the exception of Jude, who took this slight without notice. Even without moving a muscle, he seemed to be leaning toward the animated conversation that Will and Seven were having which, no doubt, concerned the potential sale of Seven’s land. Whatever Will might have to say to Seven might greatly influence his decision, and however much Jude decided to act like he had the situation well in hand, his shifty eyes and the way the fountains of sweat that poured from his body seemed to redouble their previous efforts like the torrential rains after summer betrayed him.
	“The fat man says your dad’s thinking on selling the valley land,” Timmy said inquiringly to Melissa after trying in vain to catch snatches of his grandfather’s conversation. Melissa shrugged.
	“Might be,” she said, ambiguously. “Father wants me to go to college. He thinks this is the only way. I explained to him about scholarships but he doesn’t want any white money. Never mind that that’s exactly what he’d be getting from this man, Jude. You know how hard-headed he can be. Since mother left, he’s been gnawing at the bit to be shut of the place. Too many bad memories.”
Timmy nodded at this last. It had taken Seven Eagles four years to even bring himself to talk to another person after the strange disappearance of his wife. Rumor had quickly spread through the countryside like wildfire that she had run off with some white man, and while this made for tasty gossip, everyone doubted it for the truth even as they passed it along. Such is the way with scuttlebutt. For his part, Seven had nothing to say about it except that she was gone and was not coming back. His tone was enough to keep anyone from asking more than once.
A sudden burst of swearing from Papa Will drew everyone’s eyes to the corner in which he and Seven had sequestered themselves. Papa Will, to Jude’s obvious delight, was visibly irritated and more red-faced than Seven Eagles, who stood with his arms extended with palms upward as if he had no more to offer.
“Zeke,” Will grumbled, not taking his gaze from Seven Eagles’ stony, expressionless face. “Let’s go out back and see about this third run of yours. Can’t be worse than the second, or all the nonsense I’m hearing in here for that matter.” With that, he presented his back to the room and strode purposefully for the door to the kitchen behind which, Timmy knew, was the concealed room in which Zeke had constructed his makeshift turnip still. Papa Will stormed through the doors with a final daggered glance at Jude uttering curses under his breath that turned Joan’s face a scarlet that rivaled her prized table linens. Zeke made his apologies to the room and hesitantly followed Will into the back of the establishment, filling the room with the heavy scent of brewing whiskey they had smelled upon their arrival.
“Now then,” Jude began, turning toward Seven Eagles. “That old fool said something about your land being dangerous, and begging your pardon son,” he added to Timmy, “but he is a fool even if none here care to admit it.” When the stoic native made no immediate answer, it was Joan that broke the silence.
“Satch,” she said. “Must be what Will meant. An old legend, nothing more. Will swears by it. Lots of folks here abouts do. I know the story, but I think Seven Eagles might do the yarn more justice.”
The word immediately cut through all the loathing that Timmy was mustering for the fat man Jude and his attention was piqued. He doubted that Seven Eagles would take this cue to talk, as the man rarely combined more than three words to speak about anything. Satch. He recalled his grandfather mentioning it this very day upon their arrival at Papa Will’s abode, but the excitement of the day had dismissed it from his mind before he had had the chance to ask about it. The way his grandfather had used the word as a sort of curse interested him greatly. Timmy quieted his mind, however, as, surprisingly, Seven Eagles took up Zeke’s chair at the table, turned up his shine jug for a mighty pull, and a distant reminiscence blossomed on the normally indomitable features of his face. Then, clearing his throat, he began to speak.











The Legend

	“Our nation,” Seven Eagles began with a sigh as everyone took seats to hear the telling, Timmy and Melissa on the floor, “belonged to the land. She was good to the people and they did not want, for all was provided. In time your kind began to arrive. They were weak, and did not know the land, foreign as it was to them. We taught them how to survive here. We showed them the way of deer on the lands and how and where to hunt them. We showed them to harvest corn, squash, and potatoes. We even taught them to use herbal medicines they did not know, even as diseases we had not known before began to affect our people. These we had no cure for, for we had no knowledge of them before the white man came.”
	“As the people began to intermingle,” Seven Eagles continued, “the tribes began to adopt some of the ways of the English. Sawmills like Will’s, gristmills to produce more flour, blacksmithing for better tools. My people learned how to rotate crops. These helped our people multiply and flourish, but the land, she bled from being over-taxed. The things the Cherokee learned from the English were changing them, and not all the changes were good. The blacksmiths, they made weapons in addition to tools. To their shame, they started using the black man for slaves. The land was listening.”
	“Over the years, the whites began to greatly outnumber the people of the tribes. They began to covet our ancestral home. The English, they thought themselves superior to the Cherokee. They believed that we could not possibly claim any right to the lands we had called home for many generations. Then, the worst possible thing that could happen, did. Gold was found on the land. White men came from all directions. The government, they did nothing to stop this. In fact, they encouraged it. Mining rights were sold to people to come to strip the land. They destroyed fertile ground, sacred ground, for gold.”
 Seven Eagles paused in the telling, visibly agitated. A melancholy had settled into the room, and Timmy felt ashamed for his kind. He could not meet Melissa’s eyes, feeling that he could not bear the accusatory look he was sure to find there even though he had not personally played a role in what had happened so many years ago. Jude, however, was unmoved. From the beginning of the telling, he had sat with arms crossed, moving only to wipe at his brow with the handkerchief and roll his eyes at certain points. When the word gold had been mentioned, he had leaned forward in new interest, and his greedy eyes urged Seven Eagles on.
“The government told the Cherokee they must leave,” Seven Eagles continued. “To ensure their survival,” he sneered. “The reason was obvious. Greed. And it wasn’t just the whites. Tribal leaders urged the people to leave the graves of their fathers. For monetary compensation. The government promised the tribe millions for their sacrifice. The tribes argued among themselves. The government set up land in Oklahoma to relocate the Cherokee. There were some that would not go. You might think that these people were brave. Some were. These wanted only to remain on the land with the graves of their fathers and, in turn, to return to the land themselves. These were the true Cherokee. But many simply wanted more out of the deal.”
“Finally the army arrived to remove the Cherokee forcefully. They were removed at gunpoint, only taking with them what could be carried on their backs. Human scavengers came in behind the troops to pillage what had been left behind. Relocation camps were set up. Water there was scarce, and contaminated. Conditions were bad, and many died of disease, exposure, and starvation. As the caravans departed west, a drought settled in. When this delayed the removal of the Cherokee west, some of the people thought that the lands were interceding on their behalf. This was far from the truth. The worst was yet to come, and it was only later that the people began to realize that they were being punished.”
“The droughts delayed departure until the fall. Heavy rains came, and the roads became muddy and impassable, slowing the caravans. The land yielded no game for hunting. No grazing for the livestock they were able to take with them. The rations they had brought began to dwindle. The elderly and young began to die. The air was full with the cries and lamentations of the women over the leaving of the land and the loss of their children and elders. It was in Kentucky then that a hard winter came to deliver the worst. The caravans became trapped by ice and snows. Due to the hasty removal from their homes, most did not have the clothing needed to survive. Many had no shoes. Many hundreds died. Finally, in March, they arrived. The money promised was never paid. Only the blood price.”
Seven Eagles did not speak for a time. Silence descended upon the room, only broken by the occasional cry of a woodland creature and the sniffles of Joan, who was now weeping openly. The story had made Timmy very sad, and though he wanted to sit closer to Melissa for comfort, the shame and sadness created a barrier that he dared not breach. He raised his eyes and found that his grandfather and Zeke had returned from the back room and were standing in silent reverence in the doorway. The gravitas of the moment was predictably broken by Jude.
“It’s a very touching story, to be sure,” he said. “Though I’m at a loss as to what it has to do with the danger on your land. Are you saying it’s cursed? A ridiculous notion, if so. Just an old wives’ tale made up to make white people not want to move on to the land. Or perhaps to talk me off of wanting to buy it.”
“A curse?” asked Seven Eagles, shaken from his reverie. “Might be so, but probably not the way you’re thinking. The land, as I said, was watching. Not just the whites, but the tribes as well. Nature has a way of taking back what is hers when her gifts are misused. It was soon after what has been called the Trail of Tears that reports started coming in from the men who had settled on the lands that were taken. Men found torn limb from limb. Houses destroyed. Entire settlements disappeared. Men wandered out of the woods, white like ghosts and rambling incoherently about how their wives and daughters had been taken.”
“Detachments of troops were sent to investigate beyond my land in what we call the back of beyond. Only one man returned. He was gravely injured. His left arm was missing, and he was delirious from loss of blood. The local doctor at the time did what he could for the man, but he didn’t linger long. In his delirium, he spoke only of a giant hairy man that had come on them one night in a steady rain. He seemed to attack from everywhere at once, and as the soldiers had retreated from the forest they were killed, one at a time. Before he died he said that he thought he had been allowed to survive as a warning.”
“Few go beyond the first range into the deep woods anymore. Some say he takes the women for his own. To rebuild a new people that will do right by the land. He is out there now, waiting, watching, and protecting the land. You might say it’s superstition or even nonsense. But this is not the only place that such a creature has been sighted. There have been reports all over the country. Some call them sasquatch. Others, Bigfoot. As for the locals, we call him Satch, and he is the land’s revenge.”
“Well!” exclaimed Jude, slapping his knee for emphasis, “I’ve heard some tall tales in my life, but that one beats all. Bigfoot, indeed! Why, I can’t believe you people still tell it around, especially around young folk. Next thing you’ll tell me is that men didn’t walk on the moon or that Elvis Pressley is alive and is secretly living in the Bermuda Triangle.” Papa Will had been attending both Seven Eagles’ soliloquy and Jude’s irreverent retort with uncharacteristic repose. He stood somberly in the doorway where Timmy had first noticed his reappearance to the room. Timmy had thought that Jude’s words would serve to rekindle the anger and animosity his grandfather had shown earlier but Will simply looked to Seven Eagles and, giving the slightest of nods as if to signify an acquiescence, spoke to Jude without dignifying him with even a glance.
“There are things in this world, city boy,” he began,” that neither you nor I can explain. You might have money and you might command respect among lickspittles and thieves, but here among honest folk you’ll receive only what you’ve earned, which is nil. Seven Eagles is welcome to do with his land as he likes, even if I think it is a bad idea and that no good will come of it. Whatever bad happens is on your head and, to be quite honest, you deserve everything you have coming to you. You might not be able to see the proverbial forest from the trees, but I figured a man of numbers could put two and two together. It’s plain you have eyes only for money and didn’t hear a word my friend just said. I think it’s high time you were gone, begging your pardon Zeke,” he said with a respectful lift of the head toward the elderly man,” and if’n I ever see your fat ass around this establishment again, I’ll cleft that Piggly Wiggly sign you call a head for you, and that’s more truth.”
Timmy sat poleaxed is amazement at his grandfather’s restraint. Obviously no small amount of discussion had taken place in the still room, and no mistake. There could be no other explanation for the reason that the fat man wasn’t lying bleeding on the floor with Papa Will waiting patiently for the sheriff’s deputies and an ambulance to arrive. Timmy’s face was nothing compared to Jude’s, however. As Timmy’s grandfather had begun to speak, the fat man’s expression had begun a steady crescendo from smug self-satisfaction to red, indignant outrage. If looks could kill, as they say, Papa Will would’ve been dead twice over, rose from the dead, and slain again.
“Well, then!” he punctuated with a slap on the table as he rose with considerable difficulty, his folds of belly bringing the table with it as he rose and dropping it with a <bang> as it dislodged itself from the suet. “I’ll leave you common folk to your perversions. Uncle Ezekiel, you’ll be needing to find a lift back to your place. I’m taking the Cadillac back down to the hotel, where the food isn’t so terrible and the people know their proper place.” He began for the door but Papa Will, kicking back a monstrous swig of Zeke’s famous third run, stopped him by placing a paw on the fat man’s shoulder. Jude spun away in fright, and may very well have wet himself as he lost his superior posture and wheeled convulsively away, raising his hands in a posture of surrender and spinning his eyes like the wheels of a slot machine.
“Whoa, boy,” Papa Will said, backing away, “No harm intended. Just wanted to let you know you might be in for a surprise when you see your Cadillac in clear light. Seems I remember throwing up a few pebbles making my grand entrance. Might be a few hit your car. Might be more’n a few. Y’all be careful on the way down, hear.” Papa Will had adopted his most winning grin, and Timmy could not suppress the mighty smile that possessed his face. He knew that he wasn’t the only one, as he could hear stifled snorts and sniggers behind him. Jude’s face turned a purple that could only be detected with an ultraviolet scanner and he plowed through the door, shaking the crumbling floorboards, and slammed it, dislodging dust from the crevasses between the wall logs that shimmered in the flickering lamp light like fairy dust.
As Jude’s Cadillac roared away, it sent its own fan of pebbles careening off the porch and the green pickup doing little aesthetic damage to the already weather beaten work vehicle, the friends released a hail of laughter and crowded around Will, showering him with praise, slaps on the back, and in Joan’s case, sloppy kisses about the face. Even stoic Seven Eagles spared a broad smile for Timmy’s grandfather, and Timmy had never felt prouder. Zeke, everyone could tell, was torn between his appreciation for the events and his loyalty to family and said very little. No one held it against him. Family was important, even if they were terrible.
As the glad handing and mirth began to subside, Will turned to Joan.
“I’ll be needing an empty flour sack,” he said.
“You’re not going up there?” she asked, aghast.
“Sure as hell am. Never been cowed by a city slicker and don’t plan to start tonight. That boy’s already gonna sue me over that Caddy, sure as this jug’s gonna split my scalp in the morning. May as well make a night of it. Can’t hurt anything now.”
“Bad idea, Will,” Zeke interjected. “Jude might be an insufferable ass, but he’s shrewd when it comes to business. He posted guards up on Lookout, and is probably on his way right now to call the police. Might not be the best place to take the boy tonight.”
“You can go over to my land,” offered Seven Eagles, unexpectedly. “I haven’t signed any papers yet. Besides, I’ll be needing to take Zeke here home seeing as he’s stranded high and dry. I’d appreciate it if you took my daughter with you so as she gets home at a decent hour. Zeke’s only half through this batch and I shouldn’t wonder he’s going to want to sample every jug he fills. I know Timmy won’t mind having her along. I saw your face light up when I suggested it so don’t bother denying it. She hasn’t ever been snipe hunting, either. Should be great fun,” he added with a wink to Will.
“Well, then,” Joan said, relieved, “I’ll get you two flour sacks, and I’ll pack up a few more of those apple cakes. Make sure you don’t forget those rain jackets. Y’all are sure to get a sprinkle. I can feel it in my bones.” Outside, on cue, a wave a thunder rumbled across the hills, undulating as it washed over the rugged terrain silencing the room, and Timmy shuddered with a chill.