Tea Time

It’s sunday evening and every rabbit within a mile has been hunted. The bassets hang their tails low as they trot at our feet back to the truck. They jump in, and curl up in a solid blanket across the carpeted floor. Mr. Wiley opens up the back of his station wagon and lays out snacks. The sliced cheddar cheese compliments the stale wheat thins beautifully. Kearney comes around, shaking his canister of roasted peanuts. Everyone takes a handful. There’s girl scout cookies and pretzels, too. We eat all of this in the dark and cold, standing in wet sneakers.