night, I locked the machine barn.
Then I locked the farmhouse.
Then I did something I hadn’t done in years.
I took my father’s old Winchester from the safe.
Unloaded.
Cleaned.
Checked.
Loaded.
I wasn’t expecting trouble.
I also wasn’t pretending trouble couldn’t come.
At 10:43 p.m., my motion lights came on.
I looked through the kitchen window.
A vehicle was parked by the gate.
Dark SUV.
No headlights.
I called Ben.
Then I stepped onto the porch.
The SUV remained still.
I didn’t approach.
After maybe thirty seconds, the engine started.
It backed away.
Turned toward the county road.
Gone.
Ben arrived six minutes later.
We checked the fence.
Nothing.
Gate untouched.
No footprints I could distinguish in the gravel.
“Could be reporters,” he said.
“Could be.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
Neither was I.
Saturday morning should have been opening day.
Instead, I woke to silence.
No
