Not a Drop to Drink

Do you want to die like this?" Mother had asked, that night and every night since then. Lynn's answer never changed. "No." And Mother's response, their evening prayer. "Then you will have to kill.

There's a famous line from a poem about the ocean," Mother had finally said to end the discussion. "'Water water every where, but not a drop to drink.

Regret was for people with nothing to defend, people who had no water.

You can't change the things you've done. It's now and the here on out you've got control of.

There's different ways of doing things wrong, Lynn, and not all of it is choosing to hurt others. Sometimes it's the things you don't do that make you feel the worst.

Why do you always quote poetry at me when all I want is a straight answer?

Type of men who gather up seven of themselves to attack two women in the middle of the night generally won't go back for dead friends.

Things have changed," Mother answered, her gaze drawn to the southern horizon. "So we change with them.

Just know that there's bad men in the world, and dying fast by your mother is a better way than theirs.

Where you go, he'll go," Stebbs said. "I know it." "Tough caring about people, isn't it?" ... "Wouldn't trade it," she said.

Another low moan rose from the grass. "That was a good shot," Mother said, nodding toward it. "Not good enough." Mother shrugged. "It was dark." She rose and stretched out her stiff body, a sign that she truly felt safe. "You'll get better." Another cry. Mother licked her finger, tested the wind, and fired once into the night. Silence fell.

Kiddo, you and me don't do so well in situations we can't control.' 'Don't think I care for that.

Lynn kept her eye to the scope, unable to look away from the path of the only bullet she had ever fired with love in her heart.

Men got two guns, you know. One for now," he tapped the barrel of his gun against her nose. "And one for later." When his free hand went to his zipper, she twisted underneath him, bringing her knee into his groin and pulling her knife from her boot. "Mother taught me to carry a knife for always." She left him holding his intestines in disbelief as she disappeared down the hill, his gun tucked securely in her waistband.

Killing people was easier when the only face I ever saw was Mother’s back then, anyone else was the enemy and shooting at an outline in a scope wasn’t any different than taking down a deer, just in a different shape.

I’d lost everything I had. I didn’t have the heart to take from someone else.” “Plus I would’ve sniped your ass.

I'd say he's not much older than you," Mother said when she noticed. "Really?" Lynn peered closer at his face. "How can you tell?" "Well," Mother peered up at the gray sky as she considered how to answer, "I guess it's in the way his skin isn't so tough, he's still got the little bit of baby soft on him.

Lynn pulled her own rifle into her lap, the cold metal bringing more comfort to her than Mother’s touch ever could. Her finger curled around the trigger, hugging it tight in the life-taking embrace that she’d learned so long ago. She slipped onto her belly beside Mother, watching the sunlight bounce off the twin barrels of their rifles. Waiting was always the worst part, the crack of the rifle a relief.

Do you want to die like this?” Mother had asked that night and every night since then. Lynn’s answer never changed. “No.” And Mother’s response, their evening prayer. “Then you will have to kill.