The one time Mick took me pig-hunting was October before last, while the leaves turned, a couple weeks after Dad shot himself. While we waited through early morning on a platform in the tree canopy, Mick told me that you have to shit some ways away from where you're hunting, otherwise the pigs won't come near. I asked him if pigs eat meat, and he said pigs eat anything, so I asked him if pigs would eat a dead body. He just breathed white for a little bit and then put up his little tripod and shot some into the trees. On the drive home he talked about how many hours he worked as if it had something to do with me. He went straight up the stairs when we got home, and Mom watched him go up, and she touched my head and asked me, you didn't shoot any pigs? And I told her, not this time.
Forgive me for not following all the rules