The deer liked to race

The deer liked to race around this particular meadow. Maybe it was the grass. Or the smell of the grass. Or the smell of last year’s deer. Whatever the pull, the meadow was packed with deer, and they were running.
Across the lake, Spencer sat against a hard rock that didn’t quite fit against his back and shoulders. Squinting he could make out individual deer as they sparked in and out of the herd. The echoing roar of their hooves pushed out over the lake surface. He kept waiting for a warm rain to fall. The air was heavy that way. Cozy.
It all reminded him why he’d parachuted down to this lake in the first place. Better to bleed to death hundreds miles from nowhere with a sack of money at your side than to slump your way into old age, clanking trays around some prison messhall.
Of course, that would be great if he actually had a bag of money instead of stolen laundry. Or if he was bleeding instead of just a little bruised on both thighs from where he’d squeezed his way out that window. What a surprise — to find it so small. It hadn’t looked that small.
As it was, no one was hunting for him. And odds were he had several years of hard living ahead. Plenty of time to relax, sort through his bag of clothes, wait for the rain, and listen to the thunder of the deer.

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