The driver wore a black tank top. His arms were red and stained with tattoos. He pulled a rifle from behind the seat and slid the bolt action. He had on camouflage pants and a black cap with "Hanoi Hilton" embroidered in gold. An unlit cigarette hung from his lips like a fuse.
Gramma came outside. "Any luck, Moki?"
"A'ole, Brownie," Moki said handing her the wire loop strung with keys. "Cades hea get all da luck."
Cades put his rifle in the truck. He scratched a wooden match over the truck's roof and carried the flame to his mouth. He took a hit and blew smoke through his nose. He was the poacher we'd caught all those summers ago and he pretended not to know us.
