Leshy
Chase Johnson Leshy “It’s cold,” said Ilya, pulling small mittens over his hands. His father and older brother ignored him. In fact, they had been unusually quiet tonight. His brother Kostya held a lantern and walked first, his breath coming with the cadence of his step, illuminated in the dim light. Even the lantern was losing to the cold. Their father walked in stride with his eldest son, the dark barrel of a shotgun resting in the bend of an elbow. Ilya shuffled along behind, rubbing his little hands together. Even for autumn, it was chilly, and the night air stung his lungs and windpipe if he breathed too hard. A thick layer of dead leaves crunched underfoot, and he enjoyed sweeping his feet through the deeper piles of them. This drew a glare from his older brother, and Ilya stopped kicking leaves, wincing. Kostya was always yelling at Ilya, sometimes kicking him or smacking him over the head. Ilya thought he was just mad for no reason and had come to expect random