In the Woods

So lost had he been in thought that it took him a second to remember his brother's question. Franklin pushed Donald aside and knelt down beside George's body. After studying the corpse for a moment, he said, "I'll say this much for you, Donald. You screw up a lot of things, but you never do it halfway. When you screw up, you pull out all the stops."

A thought rushed through Donald's brain, one that took him completely by surprise. He found himself wishing that the accident with George had not happened, not so much for the sake of having him back from the dead, but so that Donald would still have the shell that claimed George's life to use on Franklin. While he himself was appalled that he could harbor such a thought about his brother, an impartial observer would have seen this as being fairly natural. George had always tried to be kind enough to Donald to compensate for Franklin's cruelty, and in a lot of ways he was more of a brother to Donald than Franklin had ever been. Indeed, it was that penchant for kindness that had indirectly led to George's demise, for he had invited Donald along on this hunting trip over Franklin's vehement objections. There was no doubt in Donald' s mind that Franklin would have loved to have George back alive again, if for no other reason than to jeer, "I told you so."

"All right," Franklin said at last, pulling himself up to his feet. "Let's look around and figure out where we're going to put him."

"Do what?" asked Donald, befuddled.

Franklin sighed and looked his brother directly in the eye. Any other time, he would have had some particularly demeaning barb for Donald, but this time he seemed determined to keep his patience. "We're going to have to do something with George's body, Donald," he said calmly. I know you didn't mean to ki-er, I mean, I know it was an accident, but that isn't going to change anything now. It won't bring George back. Now we need to bury him somewhere."

Donald wasn't sure what upset him more, the idea itself or Franklin's matter-of-fact presentation of it. "But shouldn't we call the police or somebody?" he asked.

Franklin merely shook his head. "We can't very well do that, Donald. If we do, then we're going to have to tell them everything that happened, and then they'll haul you off to jail, and I don't want to see that happen."

"B-but, don't I deserve that?" Donald asked, trembling. "I mean, I killed him. I'm a murderer, Franklin."

"No, Donnie, you're not a murderer," Franklin said slowly. He hadn't called his younger brother by that nickname since they were kids, back when he actually tried to protect him instead of joining in with his tormentors. "Murder is when you mean to kill somebody. You didn't mean to kill George. They'd get you on involuntary manslaughter, but they'd still get you-if they find out about it. That's why I want to go ahead and bury the body, so that nobody finds out."

"But won't they find out anyway? I mean, wouldn't somebody notice that George is missing?"

"Okay, yeah, you've got a point," Franklin conceded. "Somebody will notice that he is missing. They won't know that he's dead. In fact, we can even file the missing persons report ourselves when we get back to town, in that will make you feel any better."

"But how can we file a missing persons report on him when he know where he is?"

Franklin rolled his eyes. "It's called lying, genius.