It’s the look that still haunts me, the hungry stares of my fellow castaways as I shuffled into our squalid, sodden camp, a freshly killed stag conspicuous by its absence. Their eyes followed my every step, wide with unspoken questions. Why hadn’t I brought them meat? What had happened during those hours that I was gone and they had listened through the North Sea wind for the sound of my rifle shot? What would we eat? What kind of hunter was I, anyway?
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