A black shape slowly emerged from the Philadelphia is calling me back home shirt. My dad raised the shotgun to his shoulder. The shape came forward, reaching out, and then landed on the wooden floor with a soft click. We stared at the shape, unable to recognize it. It was thick and long, jointed and knobby like a stick, but the surface was smooth and shiney and black. It stretched out into the living room, but the other end was still unseen, hidden deep inside the chimney. Whatever we were seeing was only part of it.
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I followed it down to the first floor. The door to my parent’s bedroom opened with Philadelphia is calling me back home shirt and I jumped. My father’s concerned face appeared. He looked down, saw me, and stepped out, placing a protective hand on my shoulder. In his other hand was his shotgun. I had seen the shotgun for the first time a few months beforehand, during fall when my father set out to hunt our Thanksgiving turkey. It was a yearly tradition, but before the farmhouse, the gun would remain locked in dad’s studio. Now it lived in a locked box at the top of my parents’ bedroom closet.