It should have been so easy, but he sat there shaking his legs, telling himself to lift his hand, when just across the river, out of the shade of the woods, two boys appeared. The younger of the two bolted up the embankment, clothes and all, and jumped into the river. When he hit the water, the splash was like an explosion of sequins in the sun. He broke the surface, screamed with pleasure, and dove under once again.
    The next boy was still wearing his pants and he quickly pulled them from his waist. He got his foot stuck in the pants leg and hopped on one leg as he tried to pull it free. In his underwear now, he returned to the edge of the woods and bent down like he was about to run a race. He was twelve, maybe, three years older than Samantha, and in the slanting sunlight Brady saw the taut strands of his shoulder muscles. The light was amazing, full of late afternoon saturation—the darkness of the woods, the warmth of the boy’s skin, the silly bleached-white underwear, and the river before him all shimmer and sparkle. Brady felt the familiar weight in his hand, and out of instinct nearly raised the metal to get the shot when he remembered it was the .45. Still watching, he set the gun on the passenger seat and crossed both arms over the steering wheel. The boy broke as fast as he could, his head down, his thin body leaning forward as if running into a strong wind. When he hit the embankment, he pushed off, setting loose a bit of dirt, and propelled himself into the air. He swung his arms and kicked his legs like the action would help him to fly, great propeller swings of fists and feet. For a moment the boy was free of everything—the heat of his clothes, the weight of his body, the depth of the water.
    It would have been such a beautiful shot.

End

 
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