|David Quammen, by Joel Sartore (via)|
"We have a moose tag," his father shouted.
The boy said nothing. He refused to care what it meant, that they had a moose tag.
"I've got one picked out. A bull. I've stalked him for two weeks. Up in the Crazies. When we get to the cabin, we'll build a good roaring fire." With only the charade of a pause, he added, "Your mother." It was said like a question. The boy waited. "How is she?"
"All right, I guess." Over the jeep's howl, with the wind stealing his voice, the boy too had to shout.
"Are you friends with her?"
"I guess so."
"Is she still a beautiful lady?"
"I don't know. I guess so. I don't know that."
"You must know that. Is she starting to get wrinkled like me? Does she seem worried and sad? Or is she just still a fine beautiful lady? You must know that."
"She's still a beautiful lady, I guess."
"Did she tell you any messages for me?"
"She said … she said I should give you her love," the boy lied, impulsively and clumsily. He was at once embarrassed that he done it.
"Oh," his father said. "Thank you, David."