Jennifer Haigh

Buck season opened—still does—on the Monday after Thanksgiving. In Bakerton it is a holiday of sorts. School was closed for the day, and I reported to Keener’s at 4 a.m. to serve eggs and sausages and countless cups of coffee to men in orange vests and jackets. Every table was full despite heavy competition from annual pancake breakfasts at the AmVets, the Elks, and the Moose.

Ray and his second wife drove into Bakerton on a clear winter morning, in a Ford they'd rented at the Pittsburgh airport. They'd been off the highway for two hours, traveling a road that snaked through mountains, alongside streams and frozen fields. Their flight had left Houston at dawn. They'd come a thousand miles to attend a small party at the Bakerton fire hall, to celebrate his parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary.