His hip made a soft, wet, popping noise, like a boot struggling free of mud. Hurt like hell too. So he decided to stay right on his back.
Even if he couldn’t roll over, his couldn’t wait any longer. Drinking coffee since dawn. Only option left was to wet himself where he lay. Least of his problems, really.
His pants weren’t wet from blood, which meant it wasn’t a compound fracture. He imagined he could still die from internal bleeding. But he wasn’t lightheaded at all, a good hour after the fall. Arteries probably intact.
He had a clear view of the treestand. Too old to be twenty feet up. Too old to be hunting at all. But since Mona died, not too much else to do with his time.
The house was empty, and he didn’t tell anyone else where he was going.
Too early in the fall to die of exposure. He’d survive the night.
Few others hunted those woods, especially on a weekday. It could be days before anyone found…
How long does starvation take? He’d dropped a few pounds without Mona’s cooking. A head start?
Bears, he thought. Or coyotes. Wolves weren’t unheard of.
His rifle was next to him. He’d fired two shots trying to attract attention. No avail. Still had three shells in it. And five in his pocket.
How many coyotes might there be?
He thought about Mona. Felt the rifle. Thought, no, I’d better wait.
52|250 A Year of Flash 
Sad and ironic. Dealing with the death of a loved one by inflicting death on others, then contemplating dying from those creatures hunting him. Very thought provoking.
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