AT THE EDGE of the forest was a 9-hole golf course where an elderly man in an orange baseball cap walked alone upon the manicured fairway. He approached his ball, a spot of white among the green, retrieved his club of choice, took his time lining up, and swung. The sharp whip of air and the tick of the club striking the ball punctuated the silence. My stomach churned with anxiety. I had unintentionally discovered the golf course while taking a walk, but now it felt premeditated. As the old man followed his ball, I walked parallel to him through the forest. Not once did he look my way or give any sign that he was aware of my presence, but soon I wished that he had. I wished that he would turn and acknowledge me, so I could give up my game, walk back to the car, and go home. But he didn’t. I put my left hand in my pocket and contorted it into the shape of a pistol. It was only my hand, but the adrenaline coursed through my body. I raised my arm and aimed for the old man’s head, his orange baseball cap. Again, he stopped in front of his ball, withdrew the proper club, and lined up. It was the perfect shot, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger.
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