Frank wasn’t dead but had been away for a long time. So happy to see him, to talk.
Up in the hills somewhere, maybe Vermont. Snowy hills and curvy windy roads. Frank was driving; Jake and I riding in the car. The car was getting stuck in muddy ruts. I noticed that the tire ruts were full of blood. There was blood running down the hill. We got out of the car. The tire tracks in this whole valley were filled with blood. Dark blood-filled tire ruts and white snowy hills. There was a large group of men who lived there, dangerous backwoods subhuman-type men and what they did was slay deer. They did it for the love of killing and butchering. They were like a whole army of deerslayers. Up all along the treeline was a row of dead, gutted deer hanging from trees.
We had to spend the night there, not knowing if they would try to kill us. In the morning Frank got us out of there, though they had taken his good car and we had to drive a broken old car that was missing a door. But he got us out of there and we were going to be able to start over, to be safe and happy, finally.