FOR LUCK

The boy dropped to one knee and lifted the limp cottontail from the gray, thirsty earth. Its soft body hung over either side of his palm as if it had no bones. It was better when they died before he walked up to them, but it did not always happen that way. Sometimes their eyes glazed over and filled with something he pretended not to see. It burned his soul. Sometimes, when he had to finish it, he looked away. And that churned his belly with a shame he did not understand.

This rabbit, shot with his father's .22, served a purpose beyond sustenance or sport. His newest friend, his best friend, was leaving. Uncle Albin had decided to take Adunya back to Ethiopia. He may never come back. He may choose Ethiopia. The boy wanted Adunya to remember the deer they had stalked, the frogs they had caught, the rabbits they had hunted. The boy wanted Adunya to remember him.

He field dressed the rabbit, but before skinning it, he cut off the back right foot. He would soak it in the borax, let it dry, and then he would give it to his friend. Adunya had many strange beliefs--most of which the boy did not understand. There was much they failed to comprehend about one another, the two hunters from different sides of the world. But Adunya would appreciate the rabbit's foot. He knew hunting and he knew tradition.

As the boy wrapped the rabbit in a dry cloth and packed it in his knapsack, he glanced up. A single turkey vulture soared above him. Those birds could smell death from a hundred miles away, he thought. A shudder slithered down his back.

Adunya had spoken about the vultures of his home, how they swarmed to death like ants on a grasshopper, snapping and hissing for a taste of blood. Adunya told the boy of the time they found the remains of a village child who had died from a snakebite. They had to chase the vultures away with sticks and rocks.

Adunya was returning to that place.

The boy hiked home holding tight to the rabbit's foot, holding tight to the hope that some superstitions were based on truth.