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“Your dad’s a great shot!” Liam tells Lucien, and there’s genuine admiration in his voice.

Lucien smiles good-naturedly. “Hell yeah. Best shot in the Lowcountry.”

I can see Billy in the distance, dragging something large through the underbrush. The dead hog. Even from here, I can tell it’s massive.

Mr. Ashford looks at Lucien, and his expression shifts slightly. Assessing. “Where’d you go, boy?”

Lucien doesn’t hesitate. “We were stalking some hogs we heard over here and didn’t want to scare them off. Thought we had a shot, but they moved on.”

The lie comes so easily, so smoothly.

Mr. Ashford’s eyes narrow slightly. “Sure you didn’t go all Luci on me, boy? Too afraid to shoot something?”

The words land like a slap.

Lucien freezes. His cheeks go red, not from cold this time, but from something else. Shame.

He looks down at the ground.

We all do, sensing the same paternal contempt we’re familiar with, the move to emasculate, to diminish.

I want to grab Lucien’s hand, but I won’t.

“It’s cold,” I say, just to break the tension.

Liam looks at me and adds quickly, “Yeah, we should head back. Get warmed up.”

“All right, boys, let’s head back,” says Mr. Ashford, like it’s his idea. Like he’s being generous.

We follow him silently to the house. The mood has shifted completely. The excitement from the kill is gone, replaced by something heavier. More tense. I’m now more conscious of my rifle and the potential for danger.

Billy joins us halfway back.

“Two hundred and twenty pounds,” Billy says to Mr. Ashford. “Clean shot through the heart.”

“Good,” Mr. Ashford says. “We’ll get it processed tomorrow.”

No one else speaks.

When we get to the house, we line up behind the billiard table in the great room where there are several gun safes. Mr. Ashford takes each rifle one at a time, ensuring the safety is on and the chamber is empty before laying it in its proper place in the safe. He leaves his own out on a bar top in the corner so he can clean it later. The ritual is precise. A demonstration of authority.

The mood has somehow shifted even more, and I notice the other boys’ shoulders slump as they drift back to their rooms to change. The performance is over. I go to the room, with Lucien trailing behind me. He closes the door and locks it. I strip off my gear and throw it all on the bed. The room feels warm after the cold outside, almost stifling.

“Luci?” I ask, turning to face Lucien. “What a fucking prick.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. He’s pulling off his own jacket. “I guess since I’m his son, I’m an easy target.”

I know what he means, but there’s no point in talking about it. It’s just how it is.

We change into hoodies. The physical shift mirrors our emotional one. We can be ourselves again, at least for a little while.

Tonight, we’ll build a fire and drink some more. The guys will tell stories about today’s hunt, about past hunts, about football and girls, and all the things we’re supposed to care about.

And I’ll watch Lucien perform again. Watch him slip back into that persona, the jokes, the easy laughter, the alpha masculinity.

But if I get a chance, my plan is to ask Lucien again about his “teacher” once he’s wasted and can’t deflect anymore.

Then maybe I’ll feel better.