The boy sits quietly in the middle of the clearing. Though he is only two-years-old, he isn't afraid of being alone. He doesn't cry, doesn't call out for his father, or brother. He sits and babbles in wonder at the star-studded sky.
He doesn't see the menacing shadow lurking in the cover of the trees surrounding the clearing.
Doesn't see the sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Doesn't hear the muted growl over the buzz of the cicadas.
There is a roar and the explosive report of a gun. The child isn't frightened. Gunshots are as familiar to him as the sound of his father's voice, as certain as his big brother's love.
Another gunshot, a rush of footsteps and he is snatched up into familiar arms. Wet green eyes stare anxiously into his, trembling lips press against his soft cheek, his cherry lips.
Tasting of copper and fear, a choked 'bait' and 'never again' fills the space between the boys, words that have been said before, and will be said again.
Unworried, the child coos and pats the tear-stained cheek shoved against his.
Across the clearing, satisfied with the night's work, the big man gathers wood for a pyre.