Not a Drop to Drink

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Lynn was nine the first time she killed to defend the pond, the sweet smell of water luring the man to be picked off like the barn swallows that dared to swoop in for a drink. Mother had killed the people who came too close to their pond before, but over the next seven years they fell by Lynn’s gun as well, their existence easily wiped out first by a bullet, then by the coyotes before the sun could rise. Death and gunpowder were scents from her childhood, but today the fall breeze brought something less familiar to her rooftop perch, and her nose wrinkled.

“What is that?” Lynn asked, nerves pricking. “Smells like smoke, but there’s something wrong with it.”

Mother jerked her head toward the binoculars lying beside her. “East.”

Lynn picked up the binoculars to see a thin line of white smoke rising above the trees there, barely visible in the gray evening sky.

“They’re burning green wood. That’s why it smells funny. Doesn’t make much heat, just a smoky mess.” Mother kicked at an errant pinecone on the roof, sending it plummeting to the ground below. “I don’t think they know a lot about being outside.” She shaded her eyes against the last red rays of the sun. “They’re also burning at all times of the day, not just when they’d need it for cooking, which to me says they’re keeping somebody warm that can’t take it—somebody sick maybe, or could possibly be children in the group.”

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