Dark Sanity
Chapter Three

A Broken Family

On the following morning, Flint decided to see the doctor about his dreams. He dressed formally, putting a duster over his clothes despite the heat, and made his way to the clinic on his mare. As soon as Flint reached the town square, he hitched Donna to a post and entered the building. The door chimed when he opened it. Behind a desk sat Doctor Tutherfield with her glasses on. She was writing something in a notebook.

“Good morning, Flint,” she said warmly, putting the book in a draw. “What a surprise to see you.”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, Penny,” he said, doffing his hat.

“Nonsense,” she said. “You’re always welcome. Besides, I don’t have any appointments until the afternoon. I’ve just been updating medical charts. Pretty boring, I know. But I have to keep records. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“Well,” he began, “I was hoping you’d have enough time for another discussion. You know, like the ones we used to have last year.”

Penny gulped heavily but tried not to look too distressed. “Of course,” she said. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

He took a seat opposite Penny, handing her an ancient twelve-sided coin. Though dented and faded, the doctor was still able to make out an embossed depiction of a primordial queen on the fifty-cent coin’s obverse.

“Oh, this is very nice. Thank you,” she said earnestly. “You’re always thinking of others before yourself.”

“Except when it comes to my wife.”

“I see,” she said in a somewhat sad tone. “So, it started again?”

He gave Penny a faint nod, prompting her to take out a notebook with Flint’s name on it. She took a moment to browse through her old notes and then flipped over to a page where she’d written comments about his dreams.

“How many times have you had that dream since our last session?” she asked, holding a glass of water and taking a sip.

“I dreamt of her twice last night—”

Penny almost gagged on her water.

“And before that,” he continued, “about two months ago. So, all together, I’ve dreamed of Hamarah three times since the last session we had a year ago.”

Her silence disturbed him.

“What do you think this means?” he asked, hoping she’d give him a reasonable response.

“I think the question should be redirected at you,” she said.

“Me?”

She gently bobbed her head, waiting for him to answer the question he’d posed without trying to seem snooty.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s scary because no one except me experiences this, and yet it’s also enthralling since there’s a part of me that longs to see Hamarah. Yet when I see her, I feel like a part of me is lost. I become desperate. The world changes almost every time when she’s in my dreams. And I’m always aware, too. You know, the way you and I are aware right here. It always feels so damn real.”

“But we went through this before, Flint,” she said firmly. “You know it can’t possibly be real.” She exhaled and went on, “It’s real in your subconscious, narcissistic mind because you yearn for it to be real. You’re miserable with Amanda, so you’ve created an alternate persona of her.”

“That’s not true,” he said, irked by her response. “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life and yet…”

“And yet she’s there,” said Penny curtly. “It’s because you created her.” Flint shook his head angrily while she spoke. “Flint, no one has the same dream over and over again. The only reason why you keep dreaming of this ‘Hamarah’ of yours is because you’ve invented her as a means to escape your unhappy marriage.”

“But what if the dreamtime is real?” he said.

Penny stared at him blankly for a moment. “We all have the right to wonder, Flint,” she finally said. “I don’t know much about the dreamtime or if spirits exist in it. But if it makes you feel any better, I agree with you in the sense that we don’t know what’s out there. Despite how many people follow Preacher Harrison, the truth is no one really has an answer as to why we’re here—irrefutable evidence, that is. Mind you, civilization as our ancestors once knew it is just wishful thinking for us. I don’t even know what’ll happen to us in the future.”

“I’m not sure either,” he said glumly. “But listen, whether the dreamtime has anything to do with this, what do you think I should do about these dreams of mine?”

“Honestly, I think it’s time for you to let go of Hamarah,” she said coldly. “If you’re as self-aware as you claim to be in those dreams, you should tell her that you’ve moved on. You’re a married man and have two children.” Drinking the last of her water, she continued, “Nothing’s going to change unless you put Hamarah behind you.”

“Hmm…I guess you’re right,” he said pensively.

“Remember, this is just my opinion,” she said. “Whatever you decide to do is your choice.”

“Thanks, Penny,” he said, getting up. “I appreciate your time and advice.”

She nodded modestly. “I’m just doing my job the way you hunt and help others around town, cowboy.”

“Do you think I’m one?” he asked.

“One what?” she responded, raising an eyebrow. “A cowboy? Of course, silly. You’re the best ranger in Desonas. I think you’re even better than Andrew Browder. It’s unfortunate that he abandoned us. Gosh, how long has it been since he left? Eight years?”

“I think so. Who knows where he is,” said Flint, lying. “Anyway, thanks again. Your advice helped me a great deal.”

“I’m glad I could help,” she said. “And please, come by anytime you want.”

“Careful, I might take you up on your offer,” he said playfully, waving and closing the door behind him.

Before returning to his horse, Flint stood still on the veranda for a minute. He took a deep breath, considering everything the doctor told him. Was he truly narcissistic? Was he losing his mind? Or were his dreams possibly a link to his past? Could it be that Hamarah existed, waiting for him somewhere on this godforsaken rock of death? He didn’t know what to think. In the end, all he could do was return home and be a husband and father to his real family.

Over the next few weeks, Flint and his fellow townspeople continued working hard to keep their desolate town alive. It wasn’t easy being a farmer, especially with such horrible heat scorching crops. They worked harder and harder as the weeks passed. And before they knew it, the month of December was already reaching its end.

Waking up on the twenty-fourth day of the month, Flint put on his clothes—neckerchief included—and went downstairs to the kitchen. After getting a glass of water, he took a seat and opened a journal filled with scribbled notes about his experiences and feelings. He drank some water while staring at a blank page, wondering what he should write. Shortly after thinking about it, he placed his cup on the table, grabbed his pen, and wrote in his notebook:

The heat has gotten worse in December. It makes me feel Earth wants me to burn in despair. I long for the gift of freedom, yet I’m always shackled. All I’ve done this month is think about Hamarah. I haven’t been able to experience or remember any other dream with her. I feel utterly hopeless. I don’t even have the peace of mind that I once had within my dreams. Amanda, over time, has become the house warden. She imposes her homebody rule with pleasure, but I’ll never give in.

“G’day,” said a voice by the kitchen door.

Flint jolted and immediately closed his book while looking up, seeing Marshal Salomon who tipped his hat.

“Well, you already brought yourself in,” said Flint. “Have a seat.”

Salomon pryingly gazed at him and sat down.

“What can I do for you, Marshal?”

“It’s been about a month since that incident near Uluru,” said Salomon. “So, I decided to visit Chief Yeramba to see how his tribe was fairing.”

“And?”

“And they’re very pleased with you,” said Salomon. “Though, they told me something rather odd.” He paused as Flint raised an eyebrow and then continued, “Do you remember the day when you went hunting with Joey?”

“Of course,” said Flint. “That was my son’s first trip.”

“Well, get a load of this: according to the Wakaya, during a walkabout rite, one of them spotted a yowie.”

“A yowie?” said Flint, startled.

“Yes,” said Salomon. “Now, you and I both know yowies aren’t real.” Flint agreed with Salomon who then added, “At first I wondered if perhaps the one going on the walkabout had seen the yowie in…what do they call it?—dreamtime? Anyway, when I mentioned this, Chief Yeramba made it very clear to me that the adolescent saw it while awake. The aborigines don’t lie, but it’s a very strange tale.”

“Sure sounds like it,” said Flint, intrigued. “I wonder why Yeramba didn’t tell me when I went there hunting for Browder.”

Salomon shrugged at him.

“Anyway,” continued Flint, “I can’t imagine you came all the way out here just to tell me this story.”

“No,” said Salomon, grumbling. “Chief Yeramba, however, asked whether you would go on a walkabout, if I could talk you into prowling around the wilds to see if you replace one or more of them.”

“Yowies?”

“No, hyenas,” said Salomon. “Yes, yowies.”

Amused by the sarcasm, Flint let out a faint chuckle.

Salomon went on, “I know it’s been about four weeks with only one sighting—mind you, it’s just wilderness lore. But hey, this means more prehistoric coins for you to collect. That is, of course, if you’re up for the task.”

“Sure, why not,” said Flint.

“Excellent,” said Salomon, shaking his hand.

He handed Flint a shabby pouch of coins as he stepped out of the house and then took off on his horse. Upon his leave, Flint went back inside his house and grabbed his journal. He took it upstairs and hid it in a guest room. Walking through the hall, he noticed Amanda in her bedroom knitting a red shirt. While he passed by, Amanda looked up at him.

“Going somewhere?” she asked.

“Huh?” he replied, stammering. “Eh, just outside.”

Flint didn’t want to tell her his real intention, trying hard to avoid another argument. He smiled innocently at her until he was out of her sight. After passing the room, he rolled his eyes, rushed downstairs, and left the house. He trudged across his muggy ranch and entered the barn. Tom, organizing stacks of hay, turned around and waved.

“Hey, dad.”

“Morning, son,” said Flint, hugging Tom. He helped him organize the haystacks. Once finished, he asked, “Say, how about you and me spend the day exploring the old wilds? Maybe some game while we’re at it?”

“That’d be great!”

“Perfect, just don’t tell your mother,” he said, winking at his son. “Let’s get the horses prepped and have some fun.”

They mounted their steeds and rode out of the barn, leaving the fertile homestead. Tom let out a skyward cheer despite it gradually getting cloudy. Flint thought to himself, it seemed Tom valued freedom as much as he. The duo left Desonas in no time, entering the humid wilds of the Northern Territory. Flint took out his Chassepot rifle and stretched over to his son, letting him borrow it.

“Amazing,” said Tom, holding the gun.

“I’ll let you use it, but first we’ll stop by the eastern springs,” said Flint. Tom nodded and kept a similar pace with his father who added, “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of dingoes or bustards; they always like resting there.”

“Great,” said Tom. “I can’t wait!”

After galloping through the grassland for about an hour, they reached a region of springs. It was a vast field with small streams scattered around the arid terrain, resembling an oasis. Flint halted Donna, swooped down to the ground, and hitched her to a bloodwood tree. Tom mimicked his father and then shuffled through the trail with his father. They heard gentle streams ahead, as well as distant thunder. Though a storm seemed to be brewing, it didn’t stop Flint from hunting and spending quality time with his son.

“So much for nice weather,” he said, pulling out his Peacemaker and ducking.

Tom agreed. He then followed in his father’s footsteps, getting to the ground while firmly holding his rifle.

“Here is good,” said Flint, stopping and observing the dreary area. He pointed north and asked, “Do you see anything over there?”

Glancing around, Tom shook his head.

“Nothing? All right, let’s move up a little more,” whispered Flint while crawling, his blue eyes narrowing ahead.

They advanced through the wilderness as quietly as they could. Flint wasn’t bothered seeing an occasional insect wriggle around in the soil, but Tom had a ghastly look on his face when he saw an orange-footed centipede squirm into the dirt. Tom stomped on the insect hard several times until it was utterly mangled. In the meantime, a cream pelt dingo scooted away with a speed that matched a cheetah.

“Son,” murmured Flint while slack-jawed, looking like he’d witnessed an angel descend from the heavens.

“Sorry, dad.”

“Unbelievable,” moped Flint. “That was a dingo. Did you see its fur?”

Tom didn’t respond, his eyes cast down at the grass; he felt responsible for scaring the animal away.

“I’m almost sixty years old and I’ve never seen one like that before.”

Flint watched the white dingo until it vanished from his sight. He felt as though it came out of the dreamtime. Shortly after, Flint signaled Tom and continued to quietly move forward until nearing a spring. They heard water trickling as it started raining. Thunder boomed with a burst of cloud-to-ground lightning. Flint ignored it, observing the region.

“There,” he said, pointing skyward. “See it?”

“Yeah,” said Tom, gazing at a bustard. He attempted to aim his rifle at it. The bird was flying around in a circle, making it difficult for Tom since he had to keep moving with the bird. “Should I fire?”

“Only if you think you’ll get it,” replied Flint.

Tom hesitated and then gave his father a doubtful gesture. Flint smirked, letting out a faint chuckle.

“Maybe there’re more below,” said Flint.

Tom suddenly fired; the bird instantly flew away, as did several others by the foggy springs.

“Ah, you should’ve waited longer.”

“Sorry, dad,” he said depressingly.

“It’s all right, son,” said Flint. “This is just a fun game of hunting. Let’s keep looking around. Any animal will do.”

They continued searching the region. But for some reason they couldn’t replace any animals near them. The rain came down harder, mist forming around them. Still, this didn’t stop Flint or his son from having quality time together. Tom eventually saw a wombat scurrying through the grass. He ran after it but slipped on the mushy land, falling down.

“Tom!”

Flint ran over to his son, expecting him to have a sprained ankle. Instead he found him chuckling. Seeing that his son was all right, covered in mud no less, he joined in the laughter. Despite the heavy rain pouring over them, they were having a great time. And before they knew it, evening came. Flint kept searching around with Tom. Finally, after a few more hours, they saw several more birds flying toward a flooded spring.

“Dad,” muttered Tom, “I think those are them.”

“You’re right,” said Flint, scouting ahead.

Tom knelt down beside his father, lifted up the Chassepot rifle, and placed its wooden stock on his shoulder.

“Easy, son, you don’t want to miss them.”

“Right,” murmured Tom, aiming carefully.

He followed a bustard and remained steady, his eyes squinting, trying to see through the thickening mist.

“Patience,” said Flint. “That’s what hunting’s all about.”

Tom listened and continued tracing his target’s movement. Then he took a shot, and the bird fell.

Flint stood up and shouted, “You did it!”

“I did?” said Tom in disbelief. “Whoa, I really did it!”

He cheered himself on. Flint, meanwhile, walked ahead to locate the dead bustard. As he approached the spring, another bird flew skyward. Flint swiftly drew his Peacemaker and shot it without even aiming. Tom watched the bird fall with a look of astonishment.

“How did you do that?” he asked.

“It’s all about practice, my boy,” replied Flint, winking at his son. “Now let’s replace these critters before it gets too dark.” He holstered his revolver and walked through the wet marsh to pick up the birds. It was almost pitch-black outside, so it wasn’t easy for him to locate them, but he eventually found the bustards by the spring. He mounted Donna shortly after putting the birds in his knapsack. “Time to go home and brag about dinner.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Tom.

The duo mounted their horses and rode back home. Not once did Flint see any signs of a yowie. It was midnight by the time they reached Desonas. The downpour became even worse. Fortunately for them, they were nearing their ranch. The horses galloped fast through the trail between the Steward and Froehlich farms, the rain not hampering them. Upon arriving home, the duo brought their steeds straight into the barn. When they finished putting away the saddles they locked the barn and ran to their house.

“Crazy storm,” said Tom, panting.

“Not as crazy as your mother,” replied Flint.

They entered the house, chuckling loudly. Their hearty laughter, however, died out when they saw Amanda standing by the hall with a grim face. Tom appeared as if he’d shrunk, taking a step back. Flint, on the other hand, stood proud while glaring back at his wife.

“It’s past midnight,” she said coldly. “There’s a horrible thunderstorm outside, and you think it’s okay to come back home laughing without even wondering how I felt about the two of you going out for hours?”

“Don’t you even dare bring our son into this,” said Flint, frowning. “I’m his father, and I wanted to spend quality time hunting with him.” He tossed two bustards down by Amanda’s feet, causing her to shriek. “Tom got one of them all on his own. You should be proud and happy that we’re bringing some extra food home instead of always eating bush tucker.”

“Is that so?” responded Amanda sardonically. “So, my bush tucker ain’t good enough for the high and mighty Flint Cross?”

“Go screw yourself,” said Flint, leaving the house.

“Dad, don’t leave!” cried out Tom.

Flint heard his son call out to him but didn’t care. He trudged across the sodden ranch, rain pouring over him. Not only did Flint feel he was drowning in despair, but the water drops felt like needles stabbing his body. He wanted to scream and leave, never to come back.

Though his conscience was telling him to go back home and ignore Amanda’s selfish and infuriating behavior, he refused to turn around. A part of him felt like a child by walking out on his family so quickly. He thought, if it was so easy to leave, did he even deserve to be a father? Another voice within his mind told him that he wasn’t acting like a child—he was acting quite his age. There was no need to return since Amanda wasn’t the woman he loved. He owed her no loyalty or respect because she’d never given him any. This sudden realization made him feel that leaving was acceptable.

Since his key to freedom was in the barn, he decided to go in. His clothes were dripping wet when he entered. He quickly mounted Donna and left, riding to the town square. At first, his destination was irrelevant. In fact, he almost went out into the barren wilds again. Upon reaching The Wild Owl, however, he tugged the reins of his mare, halting her.

He heard lively music and merry banter coming from the saloon. It attracted him. Yet it was alcohol that became a priority for him. Being married to Amanda had made him so angry and miserable that he desperately wanted a way to forget about her. Alcohol seemed to be his one and only solution. He hitched Donna to a nearby post and entered the saloon. The townsfolk turned around—startled—when Flint barged in. He was dripping wet and looked like he wanted to shoot someone.

The Wild Owl appeared old and dull from outside. The interior, however, was brightly lit and roomy with many tables. The saloon was filled to capacity with patrons. Most of them were playing billiards and solitary while others conversed by the bar with Walter Hamel, owner of the saloon. With the exception of Marshal Salomon, Jake, and his best friend Joey, all the men Flint knew were there. Martin Aleman stood up, staring at him in dismay.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay, Cross?”

“I’ll live,” said Flint, water dripping all over the floor while he approached the bar. “Hit me hard, Walt. I’m in the mood to let loose.”

“Sure thing, pal,” replied Walter, preparing a glass of whiskey behind the counter. When he gave the drink to Flint, he gazed at him and said, “Somehow I have a feeling you’ll be staying here for a while.”

“Right,” said Flint sternly, gulping down the whiskey and slamming the glass on the counter. “Give me a bottle.”

“Huh?” said Walter, hesitating. After seeing Flint’s vicious-looking face, however, he refilled the glass and gave him a bottle of whiskey. “Here you go,” he added. “Stay as long as you want.”

“I don’t mean to pry, Cross,” said Martin, taking a seat beside Flint. “You tend to always be the one looking out for us. Yet this time it looks like something’s troubling you.”

“You’re right,” responded Flint. “And I appreciate your concern. But you know, someone once told me that whiskey is man’s best friend.” He patted Martin’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll be just fine.”

Nodding warily, Martin returned to his table. When he sat down, most of the townsfolk carried on with their banter and gambling. Flint, in the meantime, continued to gulp down his whiskey.

“A few more of these will do it for me,” said Flint groggily. “Then I’ll be as good as new, right, Walt?”

“If you say so, cowboy,” said Walter.

“What?” said Flint, annoyed. “I’m not entitled to a few drinks? I may go around helping others, but I’m as human as you. I have a right to some peace of mind too.” He popped open the bottle and guzzled down the alcohol. After a few more minutes, he went on, “I had jus’ abou’ ‘nough wid Aman’da. She al’ways wantin’ me home…helpin’ tha ran’ch—” Flint gave out a loud belch. “Hell, I ain’t knowin’ no m’ore than anyone—hic!—but I rec’kon I’m way in o’ver ma head, Walt—hic!—if ya kn’ow wha ’er mean.”

“Flint,” began Walter, “you know you’re not much of a drinker. Why don’t you give me that bottle and get some rest. I’ll even let you stay upstairs for the night.”

“Yer cra’zy,” mumbled Flint, belching again.

“Okay,” said Walter, sighing. “Have it your way.”

Some of the patrons kept a sharp eye on Flint as he became more violent and drunk. Flint gulped down the rest of his bottle and slammed it hard on Walter’s bar counter. He then took the empty glass, attempting to drink from it even though there was nothing left.

“Eh?” he uttered. “Wha kinda drin’ ez zha?”

Like the bottle and glass, he felt empty. His mind was barely stable at this point. Though, what sanity remained didn’t seem to help much. He became less sober and distant by the second. Flint felt the urge to scream again. He wanted to lift up all the tables and smash them apart. He wanted to pull out his gun and unload every bullet. It didn’t matter to him if the bullets would end up in Amanda’s skull or the wall. Then, quicker than a flash of lightning, his anger flushed away. Yes, he was as empty as the glass. He wanted to cry. Yet as depressed and ashamed as he was of himself, he didn’t weep.

Flint nearly fell off his stool when he rose to his feet. He staggered, wobbling back and forth. For a moment it looked like he was waltzing. Though most of the patrons tried to ignore his behavior, a few of them gazed at him with pity. They knew his marriage was a mess and understood why. No one looked down on him. In fact, the folks of Desonas admired him. They simply sympathized with his inner turmoil. Once again, Martin stood up to take action.

“Don’t worry, Walt,” he said, glancing at the bartender. “I’ll get him home.”

It was still pouring outside. Flint doddered through the batwing doors of Walter’s saloon and tried going down the veranda’s steps. He tripped over his crisscrossed boots and fell flat on his face over the muddy ground. The last thing he saw before passing out was Martin who came out of the saloon, reaching down to help him.

A few hours passed. Flint opened his eyes and found himself in a puddle of mud in a meadow. It was raining hard. The ground trembled violently when he rose to his feet, making him wobble around like a drunken oaf. Oddly, he was sober. Flint gazed at the sweltering sky and noticed the sun appeared twice its size and had black spots on it; there was also a wrathful aura of flame enveloping it. The heat was so intense it made his vision hazy.

Flint turned away from the sun. As he did so, however, he noticed that the meadow had vanished; wherever he was had become a wasteland. He gasped at the landscape. Just then, the ground beneath him turned into quicksand, seizing him. Flint sulked and squirmed in an attempt to free himself. Though, moving around only made it worse.

He realized his freedom had always been an illusion. To him, there was nothing worse than losing his autonomy. He was a prisoner to the wasteland, sinking into the quicksand. After being swallowed by it, he found himself in a swamp. Splurging out in a panic, Flint panted and thrashed about until he freed himself.

Wading in the mire, he said in a wheezing tone, “I don’t know where the hell I am, but I’d rather be drunk again than be here.”

Out of nowhere, it seemed to Flint, the same cream-furred dingo he’d seen earlier with his son appeared in the sludgy mire, staring at him. Its eyes had a gleam of intelligence, as if it were sentient and possessed by an enlightened spirit—at least that was how Flint felt when he saw it. The dingo trotted over to him, holding something in its mouth. Upon reaching him, it released the object. Flint gazed at the wrapped object on the mud and cautiously picked it up, confused.

“Is this supposed to be for me?”

The dingo bowed. Then it walked away and disappeared. Flint abruptly felt like a child as an innocent anxiety stirred within him. He quickly tore the wrapping apart. The gift was a small bullroarer. Being given this sacred present strangely made him think about how selfish he’d been lately.

“Everything has been about me,” he said, holding the carved gift. “Is that what this is about?” He paused in thought for a moment. He gazed up at the sky, his pupils dilating as he went on, “Hamarah needs me; the rebels needs me. The war isn’t over yet.” His eyes were no longer dilated. “Wha…what happened?” Whatever memories of his past that were on the verge of resurfacing faded away. Then, thinking hard about the gift he’d just received, he said, “Yes, I understand. I’ve been far too selfish as of late.” He closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall into the swamp while he added, “Thank you, Yeramba.”

Flint awoke on a guest bed in his home. Sarah and Tom sat next to him. He rose, feeling ashamed. Silence fell, punctured only by the pattering of rain drops falling against the window; it was the only sound in the room. Amanda wasn’t there. Perhaps she was sleeping or simply didn’t care about his condition, conceded Flint.

“Are you okay, dad?” asked Tom.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Listen, I’m sorry about leaving like that. This isn’t an excuse, but sometimes your mother is ungrateful, and it really pisses me off.”

“We were really worried,” said Sarah.

“I know,” said Flint. “I’m sorry. It was wrong and stupid of me to do that. I hope neither of you ever get into the habit of following in my footsteps, especially visiting The Wild Owl in the middle of a storm to get drunk.” Feeling awkward, he rubbed his neck and asked, “So, who managed to bring me back here?”

“Martin and Kevin,” answered Tom.

“Ah,” said Flint, scratching his head. He wondered if his children were disappointed in him. They probably were, he thought. Flint anxiously wanted to try to make them forget about his imprudent mistake. Then he wondered about his dream—the message he felt Yeramba had given him. “I want you both to stay here for a moment.”

Sarah and Tom had puzzled expressions while Flint left the room. He went downstairs, searching for his guns. When he reached the entrance hall, he grabbed his Chassepot rifle. He then pulled out his older Winchester rifle, which he’d used to kill the massive bear last month. Flint went back upstairs, rejoining his children. First he gave Tom the Chassepot; then he gave Sarah the Winchester.

“Whoa,” said Tom in a tone of awe. Being able to keep the rifle that he’d used to hunt today was an amazing feeling to him. “Thanks, dad!”

“For me?” asked Sarah, hardly believing it.

Even though she’d always wanted to own a gun, she had never been given the chance to have one because of her mulish, strict mother. So, possessing the Winchester rifle was a dream come true for her.

“And don’t worry, Sarah,” began Flint, “one of these days we’ll convince Amanda to let you come hunt with us.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, smiling. “You make us worry a lot, but you’re still the best dad in the world.”

Flint hugged his children and thought to himself, although he was experiencing a horrible marriage, at least something good had come out of it—his children. Despite the turmoil building up in his mind, he’d managed to replace it in his heart to be a little humble. The Cross family still had their problems. Things never changed in Desonas. In fact, life in Australia would probably never change. During the month of December, however, Flint started to feel that everything would be all right.