Lost and its characters belong to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, and co. This is something I thought about doing after seeing 'All The Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues' when Kate mentions she and her dad went out tracking deer for eight hours. This is like a small snippet from each of those hours. Hope you like it.

Lost – Eight Hours
By Mystic
March 20th 2006
It's morning when we head out. The backpack doesn't feel heavy yet, my hair is neat, shirt's dry, we're smiling. The trees seem brighter, the sun's warmth is welcome, and the sound of birds makes me happy. But it's just the start. He hands me a rifle and I sling it over my shoulder.

A fourteen year old with a rifle. A fourteen year old girl with a rifle. And I can shoot it too.

"Alright there, Katie?"

I grin, feeling free for the first time in months because it's summer. It's summer and I'm home. "Good to go, dad."

Dad walks straight; his head held high, eyes focused on the path in front while his ears stay trained on everything around. He's disciplined. I try to mimic him as best I can. I hear the sounds of animals stepping in the distance, the stream to my right and the ticks of my shoelaces against thick brown shoes.

"How much further?"

It's a half-whisper, and he half-turns in response. He gives a small shake of his head and I nod. This is quiet time. Hunting time. He crouches, his hand presses softly into the leaves and he points. "This way."

"How's your mother?"

I shrug. "Fine."

"And your father?"

"STEP-father." I pause, watching him bow his head slightly, seeing a sadness in his eyes I recognize. "I hate him."

"Katie," he says my name sternly, but I feel my blood starting to burn.

"I just wish he would die." The rifle starts to feel heavier.

"Kate!" His footsteps slide to a halt and he turns. "You have to respect him."

After a second I manage a mischievous grin, it makes him smile and for a few seconds we stop and share a laugh. But somewhere inside, I hate him too.

He doesn't like to talk about Wayne. He won't look me in the eye for an hour. Pretends he's heard a deer and concentrates on that. I want to ask him a million questions. About the war he just got back from, about the ones he's fought in before. I want to ask him about mom.

How they met. Why they didn't stay together. If he even loved her. If he even loved me anymore.

I want to ask where Wayne came from. I tried once before.

The anger in his eyes scared me more than Wayne's hand ever could.

The mud sucks my feet in, my hair sticks to the back of my neck and my tongue feels swollen and dry at the same time. I stare at the back of dad's head and I want to ask him to stop. We've been moving for five hours now. I'm beginning to think there isn't a deer. But he watches the woods around us and it's hypnotic. He's enraptured. Mom gets this way at the ocean. Like nothing could touch her, and nothing could because Wayne hates the ocean.

Dad slows, hands me his canteen, "Let's take a break, kiddo."

We're crouched behind a bush; the deer is twenty yards ahead. There are four of them, drinking from a small pool of rainwater left from the overnight showers. Dad props his rifle up against his shoulder and he watches a moment, everything focused on the deer's head.

"Get your gun up, Kate," he says quickly.

I jerk, the rifle ruffles the bush and the deer scatter. I wince before he's even raised a hand and he gives my shoulder a squeeze.

"Come on, gotta track them down again."

"Sorry."

He only chuckles.

I'm sorry I let you down again, dad.

My eyes are starting to droop. I'm not used to this. Dad doesn't even notice at first, the distance growing between us. He's almost marching, beads of sweat sticking to the hairs at the edge of his neck. Mine roll freely. I raise my hand and manage to shout for him and he stops, his head whips around and there's something like fright and concern as he rushes back, pushes me down onto a rock and makes me drink from his canteen.

"Why didn't you tell me you were exhausted?"

"I didn't want to make you mad."

"Katie," he sighs.

The deer falls into the water as the others jump away, taking off into the woods. The rifle's hot in my hands; my father is standing, trying to shoot a second. We carry it back to the cabin and I go sit out by the lake as the sun sets.

Eight hours.

I wrap my arms around my legs as he comes to sit next to me, a plate of steaming meat, mashed potatoes and vegetables. I listen to him hum a song I recognize for a while. Something he used to hum when I was a baby.

"Good shot."

Finis