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“Good.” He shifts his rifle, and I notice how comfortable he is with it. Like it’s an extension of his body. “We’re tracking wild hogs today. They’re aggressive. You get cornered by a three-hundred-pound boar, he’ll gut you before you can blink. You get a clean shot, you take it. No hesitation. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Austen bounces on his toes again, grinning. “Hell yeah. Let’s get it.”

Mr. Ashford’s expression doesn’t change. “This isn’t a game, son.”

Austen’s grin fades a little. “Yes, sir.”

I glance at Lucien. He’s watching me like maybe he’s worried about something. This morning, he told me to stick by him no matter what, and I didn’t understand why he was so concerned. It’s not like I’ve never shot a rifle before.

But now, under his father’s primal control, I’m starting to get it.

This isn’t just a hunt. It’s a test. A performance of masculinity.

And Lucien’s father is watching.

Mr. Ashford continues, “Billy’s been tracking movement near the eastern ridge. We’ll start there and work our way south through the pine stands. Stay together unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Yes, sir,” we all say again.

“Good men.” Mr. Ashford looks at each of us one more time. “Let’s move out.”

We fall in line behind him, rifles held properly across our chests, fingers off the triggers. The pea gravel crunches under our boots as we cross the clearing toward the tree line. The sound is loud in the quiet morning.

Lucien falls into step beside me. “You good?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Just stay close to me. Don’t do anything stupid.”

I want to ask what he means by that, but we’re already entering the woods.

The forest swallows us whole.

The trees are massive here. Ancient oaks with trunks so thick two men couldn’t wrap their arms around them, their bark dark and deeply furrowed, their limbs dripping with Spanish moss. Towering pines rise between them, their trunks straight and thick, branches spreading overhead to create a canopy.

The ground is covered in a thick layer of fallen leaves and pine needles. Years of accumulation have created a soft, muffled floor that absorbs the sound of our footsteps. Frost clings to everything. The undergrowth, the fallen logs, the low-hanging branches.

The smell is overwhelming. Pine sap, sweet and resinous. Wet earth, rich and dark. Decay, the slow rot of fallen trees and last year’s leaves. And something animal and wild underneath it all, something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Mr. Ashford leads, knowing every inch of this land. He doesn’t check to see if we’re following. He knows we are. His boots make almost no sound on the soft ground. He moves like a predator stalking his prey.

Austen is right behind him, practically vibrating with barely contained excitement. Every time a branch snaps somewhere in the distance or a bird takes flight, he jerks his head toward the sound, his rifle coming up slightly before he remembers to relax.

“Easy,” Mr. Ashford says without looking back. “You’re gonna scare everything off before we even get close.”

“Sorry, sir,” Austen says, trying to settle. But I can see the energy still coiled in his shoulders, the way his fingers keep flexing on the rifle.

Alex and Matt walk together, talking in hushed voices about the last time they were here. Something about a deer Matt almost shot but missed. Matt’s still defensive about it.

“I’m telling you, the wind shifted,” Matt says. “I had the shot lined up perfect.”

“Sure, bro,” Alex says, grinning.

Liam is behind them, his rifle held carefully, his eyes scanning the trees. He looks more comfortable than I expected, like he’s done this before, or at least something close to it.

Billy walks slightly behind the group, his eyes constantly moving, scanning the ground, the trees, the horizon. He knows this land best. Every place the hogs like to root for food. Occasionally, he crouches to examine something. A hooved-paved track, a broken branch, disturbed leaves. When he finds something, he points it out to Mr. Ashford with a quiet word.