Hunting Youngin's

Date: 7/31/2017

I'm a young boy (8-12 years old, probably closer to 12) and I'm with two other boys out hunting on a gloomy, snow-covered winter day. Clearly we're not hunting any big game since I'm walking around with an unloaded .22. We're moving as much as you'd expect for youngsters, in a slightly wooded pasture on top of a hill near a large slough. As I turn from East to west, the chubby boy behind me was shot in the stomach and immense fear surged through me, when an old man appeared and blamed me for shooting him. My bullets, which did not match the ones in the boy's stomach, were still in my hand nor had I even shot my gun. The cranky old man wasn't having it and started talking to the boy as if he were dying. I yelled at the man to take one of the vehicles we had (I had some 98 3 seater and had some 5 ton mega diesel) to the ER but again he blew me off, clearly not having much interest in our well-being. They walk towards my older pick-up and I know I need to do something to make this man move. I run over to his pick-up and back it to the end of the hill right where it (steeply) slopes down to the slough, slam on the brakes, slip it into neutral, and bail. The pick-up slowly starts to roll backwards and, at this point I'm too scared to look for the old man, so I take off west to the road (that's a solid half mile away) where there is a significant amount of traffic for being a gravel road. It felt like the road running north-south West of my childhood home. I woke up as I approached the dark gravel road.