“What about the team that’s in last place?” someone else asked.
“We’ve come up with a suitable punishment, but we’re going to leave that a surprise too. Now you’d best get at it, I heard we have a June storm rolling in.”
Everyone groaned.
Mila glanced up at me and spoke with a regretful tone. “We’re going to lose because of me.”
Her words didn’t sound like an apology. She believed what she said.
I looked around the rest of the group. Most of them were men. Some of the younger ones looked to be in decent shape, but they were paired with older men who might be great shots but would struggle with the obstacles. If things went badly, I could carry Mila. Other teams would not have that option.
“I actually really like vodka,” I told her. “I think we should try and win.”
She gave me another look, unconvinced.
The first stationruled that the shooter wear a blindfold.
“You’re up first,” I told her.
She didn’t look happy about it, but she let me spin her around and tie the blindfold over her eyes. She stood dutifully while the loader prepared the shotgun and handed it to me.
“I’m going to put you in position, and when I call pull, you shoot.”
“I can’t see what I am shooting at,” she complained.
“Then you can’t do this wrong, can you?”
“I guess not.” She still sounded uncertain.
She did better than expected and hit one of the flying clay pigeons.
I took the gun from her arms as she pulled the blind off her eyes.
“You’re done shooting for the day. Now all you have to do is walk with me.”
Her eyes looked at me solemnly. “That’s it?”
“You think you can manage that?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
She barely managedit at the bog station. They had us remove our boots and put on hip waders. Mila was brought the smallest size, but she was still drowning in them.
When we were geared up, Mila stood on the platform and looked across the wetlands. There were some scraggly pine trees and gnarly silver birch, but they looked misplaced, like they were sinking beneath a floor of floating moss and dank waters.
“Have you walked in a bog before?” I stood beside her, looking across the foggy waters that felt deceptively calm.
“No. What is this place?”
“It’s mostly moss floating on water, with roots and logs underneath. It can be tough to walk on.”
She just stared. “It smells bad.”
“I’ll carry the shotgun.” I pointed to the skeet stand in the middle of the bog, where two men awaited our arrival. “You just try not to go under.”
She gave me an alarmed look. “Okay.”
The water smelled like decay. Every step was a balancing act of pulling one suctioned foot out of the moss bed and then precariously stepping forward, never knowing if you’d sink further or hit a log. We were only waist deep, and Mila looked like she was fighting for her life. She didn’t have the body weightto break the suction, and she was wasting valuable energy just trying to pull each step free.
