Bow Season, A Short Story

Troyer smiled, remembering the newspapers with headlines from 1967 about the race riots in Detroit.

“Yes. I just told you that. So you don’t … ” Troyer’s voice trailed off. “I knew it,” the farmer snorted.  

“What’s funny?” Aldo asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Money well spent, Aldo. Solved all my problems.”

He looked at Aldo for a long moment, his heart suddenly torn at what he pieced together—had literally uncovered. He waited for a sign; directions on what to say next.

And a voice whispered into his ears.

Aldo stared at Troyer, the effects of shock clinging to his expression now.

“Can I tell you something?” Troyer asked. “This is heavy on my heart. Will you promise you’ll do me a favor? You know my religion abhors a lie.”

“Sure, Ed,” Aldo replied. “Name it.”

“Your nephew got me thinking. I believe I know who really shot Light-ning. I feel bad about the way things played out. I want to make sure your nephews know I’m serious about this. So I’m asking for a favor, I guess. Will you give them a message for me?” Troyer asked, casually covering the box with his coat. Aldo looked humbled.

“Anything, Ed. Thank you. Sure, you name it. What do you got in mind?"

“Let’s get you tended to first,” Troyer said. “I want Esther to hear this.”

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