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The Major

Fiction Is Stranger Than Truth

We were in a cabin on the First South Branch of the Oconto River. It was the last day of November. The deer season had ended, and it was legal for hunters to again carry shotguns in the woods looking for ruffed grouse. I had no choice but to spend the night in that cabin and, on the following morning, deliver the usual first-of-the-month Spendthrift Trust remittance to Major Nathaniel Peabody (USA, ret.) It was cold. It was very cold. The bunk assigned to me was the farthest from the pot-bellied wood-burning stove, and I knew that the stove somehow would be completely out of the heating business when I experienced my regular early morning call of nature.

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