The autumn chill that had settled overnight was lifting in the early morning sun. The bush was still. I heard a raven caw in the distance. Halfway up the slope above my shack, where sapling trees clung to life in the dry, where the trunks of their older companions were charred from a back burn gone wrong a few years back—the firies were reducing the fuel after a wet season to protect the subdivision of hobby farms down by the river—there was a narrow track, not visible to the untrained eye. It was up there that, when the need arose, I set a trap.
I didn’t like setting traps. The native wildlife too easily got caught, but after last night’s fiasco, I was in need of another kill.
I was standing over a small hind. A teenager. The muscles quivered, eyes rolling in terror at the sight of me.
