
"Maurice lay in his sleeping bag on the single mattress and glanced around the one-room cabin until his eyes adjusted to the dull glow. A flicker of amber light twisted and bent behind blackened glass, tossing shadows against the log walls. A yellowed calendar, thirty-five years old hung on a steel spike; faded pink stubs from raffle tickets bought for a local Rodeo Queen contest were pinned to a log, the draw made twenty-two years ago; wrinkled and warped hunting magazines sat stacked beneath the rack holding two polished shotguns; a washcloth, dishtowel, flannel shirt and navy pants drooped from a thin clothesline near the woodstove pipe." Read the story...