Drawn in Dew

Before disembarking on the morning hunt, the Doughertys each draw me a trail map, one traced on the jeep’s dew-covered window, another sketched in pencil. In the fields, Mr. Dougherty tells me stories of his great grandfather. How his cry of “by Jove, boy!” struck fear in young Mr. Dougherty’s heart. How he lived his ninety-eight years in full health, drinking schnapps and smoking cigars. And how, shirtless upon his deathbed, his scarred shoulders evidenced his labor as a blacksmith assistant. The story charmed me, but I feared it might soon dissolve away, as quickly as the morning’s dew-drawn map.