Each autumn, like clockwork, they rendezvoused for a makeshift war gameno paintball guns, just color-coded bandanas, a set of rules as thick as a phonebook, and the kind of brutal wit only ex-army pals could muster.
This particular Saturday, sunlight filtered through the skeletal branches, dappling the ground with gold. Nate and Sam were crouched behind a mossy boulder, plotting a flanking maneuver, while Dozer stalked through the underbrush a hundred yards down, Trevor at his heels and cursing softly about mud in his boot. The air was sharp with the scent of pine and last night's frost.
They were in the thick of an ambushTrevor had just fake-died, dramatically clutching his chest and rolling down a slopewhen Nate caught a glimpse of something that snared his attention: An unmoving leg sticking out from the base of a birch.
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