Pavlov knows his time has come. The critter is no longer sniffling the air. It takes full snorts of the air, trying to find that elusive scent of sweat, nicotine, and fear. Its short, forked tongue laps at the dusty breeze. Pavlov closes his eyes for a second. He swings his left hand up, bringing the rifle to his shoulder. The rubberized butt meets his webbing; he sees the critter turn. As his finger wraps around the trigger, he sees the critter lunge. And as his finger pulls back, he sees the critter fly. Pavlov is stuck in the moment. The sun hangs low and hazy in the dusty atmosphere. Saliva dribbles from the corners of the mouth of the critter. The flaccid tongue hangs comically out of the mouth. Pavlov’s beard is too long; he should have trimmed it. He wonders how it will look when his replacement find the upper chunk of his torso sticking out of a ruined mess of a body. Pavlov regrets not renewing his life insurance policy. Pavlov regrets a lot of things. But first and foremost, he regrets being eaten.