I’m remembering, too, the way that in autumn, I walk up the hill and search for just the right stones, each about the size of a walnut, hickory nut, or pecan—round—which I fold beneath the nape of skin before attaching the rope to the skin to help me peel the hide off, revealing the meat, the bounty, the sustenance. With the little Hill Country deer I hunt it makes the job easier. It’s a trick my father showed me. The hide comes off evenly, cleanly, easily; and the older I get, the more powerful and significant the transition in that step seems to me, deer No. 11, where you get the hide off, and get down to the real business, as if for the first time, of becoming the deer.