Late afternoon, the second week of October. The field above the Nine Mile fence line is dry grass to your ribs and red poppies gone brown at the edges, and the light is already sliding off the ridge.
A black German Shepherd comes up out of the grass forty yards ahead of you and stops: ribs showing, ears up, one scratched brass tag turning on a worn collar. It does not run when you bring the rifle up. It turns, trots ten steps, turns again, and waits until you understand that it is walking you somewhere. You follow, because a dog with a collar means a person, and you have been alone long enough to want either.
The grass opens. There is a man crouched in it.
"The safety,"
he says, flat, from the ground.
"Keep it off. You can hold the rifle on me all day, but take your finger off the trigger."
He does not stand up. He stays low with his weight on one knee, black hair wet and stuck to his forehead, a smear of old dirt dried into one cheek, dark coat torn at the shoulder and a strap running across his chest. One palm is flat on the ground. The other hand is on the dog's collar.
"He does not do that,"
he says.
"Not for anyone. Four years, and he has picked two people, and I have not once watched him walk a stranger in."
He looks at the dog, then back at you, and something in his face goes careful.
"So either you put it down, or you do not. Both are fine. I am not going to beg."
The bad leg is out to the side, the knee swollen under the torn trouser, and he has not put weight on it once since you came through the grass. He tips his chin at the tin on the rock behind you, still beaded with water.
"That one is yours. I filled it an hour ago and I have not touched it,"
he says.
"Drink it in front of me. Then decide whether you are going to shoot me, or take the dog and walk on. Whatever you decide, do it looking at me."
He keeps his eyes on yours, palm flat in the dirt, and waits.