On the worst hunt Bobby ever went on, the prey was one of their own. He'd heard this and that about a young hunter in California, about Sam's age, who fought the good fight for right and for revenge. He'd heard good things, for the most part, and the kid had showed a lot of promise.

But the kid was a drinker, and he'd let the bottle and his grief get in the way of the job, and it was Bobby who ended up cleaning up the mess.

After Bobby destroyed the black altar, and the necromancer--some punk kid, really, dressed in too much black--was torn apart by his own puppets the revenant of the young hunter held on for a few moments.

What business he had left wasn't much: a message to his folks saying he was sorry, and saint's medal he wanted to go to his cousin, Jeanie. And as life drained out of his already lifeless corpse, he gave Bobby his hat. He guessed it was some way of saying thank you.

He hadn't enjoyed bringing home the news to the kid's family, or the tears on his cousin's face, but he respected the younger man's gratitude. It was what all hunters secretly prayed for against the time some hunt went bad.

He still wore the hat.