Wendy POV

   I must have fallen asleep, because I'm woken up by a door slamming and a babble of gruff voices. My heart races a mile a minute as I try to see where I could hide the two. I shove them off my lap, willing them to stay quiet. I stretch my legs, searching the recesses of my room for a hiding place. The only place that comes to mind is my laundry hamper. It's full, which is both awkward and practical. I lift them both and shove them in, piling shirts and jeans over them. My dad comes clomping up the stairs, almost yelling at me in his usual manner. 

   "HEY WENDY! HAD A GOOD DAY?"

   He doesn't mean to be loud, but that's just how he is. Eh well. I try not to look suspicious.

   "Hey Dad. Yeah, I guess. I'm tired, could you please leave me alone?"

   "OKAY!"

   He turns and leaves, and I snicker as he bumps against everything in the stairwell. I hear the boys yelling and cheering, and look down the stairs. I freeze in horror. They've shot down a deer. I have to hide Dipper from this until it's all gone. I feel small arms wrapping themselves around my thigh. Too late. Dipper looks up at me. He must have gotten out of the hamper without my knowing. I ruffle his hair, praying that he doesn't look down the stairs.

   Suddenly, he unwraps himself from my leg and dashes down the stairs. Halfway down, he notices what he's doing and falls flat on his face, tumbling down the rest of the steps with little squeaks of terror. I rush down after him, knowing that my cover is blown. That lasted barely six hours. Now they'll want to know everything.
   Dipper wails and screams as he shakes the deer laying on the table, and I try to pry him away. He starts punching me again, tears streaming down his prawn-red cheeks, reverted back to his wild state. I back off and leave him be. I feel so sorry for him, mad at my dad for shooting down the doe, but I know that I can't do anything about it. Dad just stands awkwardly in a corner, and I feel like yelling at him, but it wouldn't do any good. I try to grab Dipper to shuttle him back upstairs and calm him down, but he just skips away and presses his face into the deer's belly fur. I gather him up into my arms, turning him away from the carcass, but he strains against me. I tell Dad:

   "Bring the deer outside and lock the door! Maybe he'll calm down if we get it out of his sight! Now! Move!"

   I have a plan that might work, even though it seems too crazy. Maybe if we bury the deer without touching it, Dipper will calm down and understand that we didn't mean any harm. Even though, it's all resting on maybes. Still, this must have shaken him. He's too young to have to see this, too young to understand death.

   I tell Dad to start digging a hole in the ground behind our house, and he loudly calls the boys to help him while I go and get Dipper, calm him down, at least do something. Now he's curled up in the corner, wedged behind the fridge, rocking back and forth and moaning and sucking his thumb.

   I gently coax him out by slowly getting closer to him, then wrapping my arms around him and humming a lullaby, then lifting him up and bringing him outside. I make sure a keep a tight grip on him, because I know he's a pretty wriggly little guy. I walk round to the backyard, rubbing Dipper's back the whole time. It seems to calm him down until he sees the deer again. I recognize the panic signs and squeeze him tighter, murmuring to him, only just managing to keep my grip on him. Dad's still digging the pit, and I motion with my head for him to hurry up. He nods back, and Dipper seems to understand what's going on and stops wriggling. He buries his head in my shoulder, shaking so hard he feels like he's going to fly apart. Dad lowers the deer into the ground, as gently as if he were putting a baby to bed. Dipper looks up again, just as he shovels dirt over it. He moans, and I think it means he wants to go inside. He's had quite the day. 

Later that day, in the evening

   "Dad, you can't just shoot down animals anymore, okay? You saw how the little dude took that, right? What if he does worse?" I lean over the kitchen table. It's lit only by the overhead lamp, giving the conversation the atmosphere of a police interrogation. Dad looms over the other end, his head nearly grazing the ceiling. Even when he's slouched over, he's huge. 

"I understand, Wendy. I wanted to have venison tonight and surprise you, but now, with that little guy..."

I finish his sentence. "No more hunting."

He looks up. "All right. No more hunting."