A white-tailed buck in my sights. My index finger slides into position. I exhale slowly. But the trigger never gets pulled.
A bullet whizzes just overhead. Dried bark splinters and showers over me. I drop into a crouch at the bottom of a massive oak, heart thumping.
Another bullet. This time I’m not so lucky. It grazes the base of my skull. The pain is electric, but I don’t dare scream. I grip the back of my pulsing neck. Hot… slick… red…
I flatten myself against the forest floor, crawl through the wet mossy leaves.
Hunter turned hunted.
Turned trophy.
The Weekday One Hundred 