By Matthew F. Jones
After the lack of his family members farm, John Moon is a determined guy. A grasp hunter, his skill to poach online game in-season or out is the one factor that stands among him and the soup kitchen line. until eventually Moon trespasses at the flawed land, hears a rustle within the brush, and fires a unmarried fateful shot.
Following the bloody path, he comes upon a stunning scene: an unlawful, deep woods campground packed with medicines, bundles of money and the physique of a useless younger lady, killed by way of Moon's stray bullet.
Faced with an final problem, Moon has to choose: does he take the money and forget about his accountability for the girl's dying? Or confess?
But prior to he has an opportunity to make your mind up, Moon reveals himself at the run, pursued via those that imagine the money is theirs. males who don't care approximately correct and flawed and who wish just one factor from John Moon: his physique, face down in a ditch.
Matthew F. Jones' A unmarried Shot is an extraordinary, visionary mystery corresponding to the paintings of Tom Franklin, Ron Rash, Daniel Woodrell, and Cormac McCarthy.
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Extra resources for A Single Shot
I knew who his referred to—her late husband, the ghost I’ve learned to accept and even, at times, embrace. The ghost never leaves. I’m not sure that he ever should, though there are times I wish he would and of course that’s a horrible thing to think. “They—I mean, both sets of grandparents—want us to move out there. So we can be near them. ” I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do. ” “Family. His parents need to be part of Jack’s life. They can’t handle the cold weather up here anymore.
She asked. I hesitated. She put a hand on my arm. ” I did. And then she said something I never saw coming: “We’re not forever, Myron. ” A group of kids rushed past us. ” A ref blew a whistle. A horn sounded. ” Jack, bless his little heart, appeared around the corner. We both snapped out of it and smiled toward him. He did not smile back. Usually, no matter how awful he’d played, Jack came bounding out like a born-again puppy, offering up smiles and high fives. Part of the kid’s charm. But not today.
It’s like your hair color or your height or your hearing. It just is. And I’m not even talking here about the years of training I did to improve my body and to learn how to fight. But that’s there too. Coach Bobby did the predictable thing. He stepped in and threw a wild roundhouse. A roundhouse isn’t an effective punch against a seasoned fighter. You learn quickly that when it counts, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. You are better off throwing blows with that knowledge.