Matt, home two days early, stood in the doorway in his hunting finest: baggy shorts, leather boots, flannel shirt covered by a khaki vest with eight pockets for ammo and smokes. One hand clenched the prized Remington that he oiled and caressed each night as if it was a newborn. The other held the canvas bag.

 

"What's that?" Carey asked. "I thought you were shooting deer." He had tied the sack at the top, and something inside was flipping and flapping, struggling to get out.

 

"I was. But then this happened."

 

He stomped into the living room, placed the rifle on its bronze rack above the mantle, then lugged the bag into the kitchen and hoisted it on the linoleum table. She followed him in.

 

Whatever the sack held poked and thrashed without let-up, yet made no noise.

 

Matt took a breath. His brow was wet, his beard matted, and he stunk like an otter. "I went out early, before the other guys, hoping to bag something quick. I walked about a mile north and waited in some brush. I don't know what happened. I must have dozed off."

 

The jerking and jolting continued, and Carey worried it might flip itself off the table. "Then what?"

 

"I woke up and there was this… thing… couldn't be more than three feet tall, standing and staring at me. It said something that sounded like, 'Greetings.' Scared the shit out of me. I just reacted. Couldn't help it, Carey. I couldn't help it!"

 

"You shot it?"

 

"Didn't mean to, Care."

 

"Let me see." She reached down to open the bag, but he pushed her hands away.

 

"Don't."

 

"Is it a kid?"

 

"It's not a kid."

 

"You said it talked."

 

"It's not a kid. It's something else. It's not human."

 

"Is it hurt?" She saw faint orange stains seeping through the canvas.

 

"I guess so. Let's sit down. I want to think about this."

 

Sit they did, back in the living room, Matt smoking and gulping Dewar's. Carey realized she had missed the end of her show. "We should call the police."

 

"No. Do you think I want to be known as the guy who shot the first alien?"

 

"Oh, Matt. It's probably a bear cub."

 

He leaned forward and glared. "It spoke to me. It's an alien."

 

Matt turned from her, poured another and put on the football game. She peered into the kitchen. The bag was no longer moving.

 

"…is an alien," he slurred.

 

By the third quarter, Matt dozed off. The bottle was empty. She waited thirty minutes, until he was snoring, then went to the kitchen and untied the top. Inside, a shriveled form lay still.

 

Three eyes, all closed. Purple skin. Furry spikes in place of ears. Orange ooze surrounded its torso. Yup.

 

She looked back at her husband. He'd meant no harm.

 

Carey went to the shed for a shovel, then walked out behind the willow.

 

Four feet should be enough.

 

Then she reconsidered. Six, just to be safe.