When I need to see him, Swick is there for me, waiting on the abandoned, rough wood bench in the woods. He’s a mid-sized brown man, whether in the baggy pants and old-fashioned jacket or just visiting, with his brushy mustache, expressive big eyebrows, receding grey hairline and wearing a brown felt fedora. Usually, one hand is holding a modest, curled wooden tobacco pipe. He digs in the bowl of the pipe with a sharpened, stubby pocket knife blade, taking out ashes before reloading from the pouch in his jacket. He shaved this morning. Smells good, earthy. He does more listening and watching than talking, and he seems to really enjoy listening to me. He’s left room for me on the bench; we’re alone now, almost. Always, there’s life in the woods, under the leaves, up in the branches, in the ground, down by the water, close to our feet in the scuffling leaves. Was that a bird call? What kind? Did you see that, moving on the other side of the bush? Swick has been watching, and we’re safe. If a rabbit shows up, or maybe a squirrel, Swick can take care of it with his gnarly rifle that he picked up along the path as we were walking and scouting. But first he will let me take a shot (or even two) with the shiny six-shooter I brought along. He’s promised to carve a slingshot for me next time we come out, and he’s been talking about making a sling-arrow for me with a cedar shingle some time, maybe on his next visit when I’m a little older. It’s still morning; we can be back in the house before lunch, after he finishes another pipe. I love that smoke, the fruity campfire smell, the way it hangs curling in the air. I wish we could stay here, but I will return again and again and again.