My friend Tom was about 20 yards to my right, standing up against a bale. I remember missing yet another a goose, and glancing over to see Tom down on his hands and knees, a dead goose on the ground next to him. “I had killed two and was lining up on a triple when it hit me. I thought I’d been shot,” he said. Although he remained aware and conscious, his cheek and jaw were badly swollen. As far as I could figure, one of the first two birds of his unfinished triple hit him. He did it to himself, although he blamed me for it. I know it wasn’t me because I hit all of one goose that day, and it was later in the hunt.