Article Title

No Bird


childhood, prison guard

Document Type



The pickup on the mud road behind us pings as it cools. "Do you want to shoot one, Stevey?" Dad says. "You can if you want to." Steam comes out of his mouth when he speaks, and he sniffs loudly. "No," I say, standing close to him so that I can bury my face in his warm flannel shirt. "I think he's just scared," Mike says, cracking the double-barrel open and inserting two shells. A kingfisher makes its laughing sound as it flies down the river channel on the other side of the brush.