Time to Hunt by Stephen Hunter

colors all the hues of miracle. But others were older and darker, muted things that appeared to have been painted in another century.
    Somehow he found himself talking to a girl about birds and told her that he, uh, hunted them. It wasn’t the right thing to say but she was one of those snooty Eastern ones, who wore her hair long and straight and had a pinched look to her.
    “You kill them?” she said. “Those little things?”
    “Well, where I’m from they’re considered good eating.”
    “Don’t you have
stores?”
    This wasn’t going too well. This grouping was smaller and more intimate than last night’s and everybody seemed to know everybody. He felt a little isolated, and looked for Crowe, because even Crowe would have been a welcome ally. But Crowe was nowhere to be seen. And on top of that he felt incorrectly dressed: he was in chinos and Jack Purcells, plus a madras sport shirt. Everyone here wore jeans and work shirts, had long, exotic hair, beards, and seemed somehow in some kind of Indian conspiracy against the ways that he felt it was proper for a young man to dress. It made him uncomfortable.
    Some spy, he thought.
    “Don’t give Donny a hard time,” said someone—Trig, of course, simply appearing dramatically, an event for which he had a little gift.
    Trig was more moderate today, his hair back in a ponytail, which he wore over a blue button-down shirt and, like Donny, a pair of chinos. He also had an expensive pair of decoratively perforated oxfords on, in some exotic, rich color.
    “Trig, he shoots little animals.”
    “Sweetie, men have been hunting and eating birds for a million years. Both the birds and the men are still here.”
    “I think it’s strange.”
    Donny almost blurted, No, it’s really fun, but held himself in.
    “Well, anyway,” said Trig, drawing Donny away. “I’m glad you could come. I don’t know who half these guys are myself. People just hang out here. They drink my beer, smoke grass, get stoned or laid and move on. I’m hardly here, so I really don’t care. But it’s cool that you came.”
    “Thanks, I didn’t have much to do. Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
    “Oh? Well, go ahead.”
    “It’s Crowe. You know, he’s really borderline in the unit, and he keeps fucking up. I know he’s a smart kid. But if he gets booted from the company, his tour is no longer stabilized, and he could go on levy to the ’Nam. And I don’t think he’d look too good in a body bag.”
    “I’ll talk to him.”
    “As he said, anyone who gets wasted this late in a lost war is a moron.”
    “I’ll mention it.”
    “Cool.”
    Trig was also cool. Donny could see how he’d be a good man in a firefight, and while everybody wept or cowered, he’d be the one to go out and start bringing the people in from the beatings.
    “Can I ask you?” he suddenly said to Donny, fixing him in one of those deep Trig looks. “Do you doubt it? Do you ever wonder why, or if it was worth it? Or are you foursquare the whole way, the whole nine yards?”
    “Fuck no,” said Donny. “Sure, of course I doubt it. But my father fought in a war and so did his father, and I was raised just to see that as a price for living in a great country. So … so I went. I did it, I came back, for better or worse.”
    They had now wandered into the kitchen, where Trig opened his refrigerator and got a beer out for Donny and then took one for himself. It was a foreign beer, Heineken, from a dark, cold green bottle.
    “Come on, this way. We’ll get away from these idiots.”
    Trig took Donny out on a back porch, toward two deck chairs. Donny was surprised to see they were on a little hill and that before him the elevation fell away; across the falling roofs, in the distance he was surprised to see the huddled buildings of Georgetown University, looking medieval in profile.
    “I forget what real people are like,” Trig said, “that’s why it’s cool to talk to you. Nobody’s more