Second Chance Baby Daddy

Dylan
My nerve endings feel as if they’re on fucking fire.
All of my muscles are ready to spring into action if need be. It’s taken me over two hours
of skimming over the deep snow before I’ve finally found something to shoot for dinner.
It sounds fucking hard, but it really isn’t it. I mean, those folks in the city, in their big
fucking houses with the huge mortgages, pay hundreds of dollars a month to go to a gym to get
exercise.
Not me.
I go and shoot my own dinner. Up here in the mountains, I’m totally self-sufficient.
There’s no supermarket, convenient store—or any other luxury, for that matter.
Nope. There’s just the mountains, my cabin, and me.
It wasn’t easy at first. The whole damn thing was a real culture shock, but now? Fuck,
now, I’m used to it. I’m more than used to it—I like it.
I’ve donned the bearskin coat in exchange for the Armani suits, the starched white shirts,
and the ties. Reality is, those things may have made me look super hot, but they don’t keep me
fucking warm out here. Sure, the women threw themselves at me in those clothes, but newsflash:
there are no women in the mountainside.
No beanie, no gloves today—they would just slow me down. As long as my body’s
covered and I keep moving, I’m okay.
I close my right eye and focus with my left. It’s perfectly still around me. If I didn’t know
better, I’d say someone pressed the mute button on nature. In the beginning, this sort of silence
unnerved me. It was eerie.
Over time, I grew used to it. Now I know I would fucking miss it if I didn’t hear it
anymore.
Snow settles on my outstretched bow arm.
Since leaving my cabin, a storm has been brewing. Soft flakes fall, and the ominous dark
color of the sky predicts only worse things to come.
The rabbit knows it, too. I can see his nose twitch. Slowly, softly, and carefully, I draw
back on my bow. As I do, I’ve got the rabbit in my line of sight.