Claire paused for a moment, studying the picture.

“It’s the only true way to do it. And none of this stuffing and mounting business,” she said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. Sometimes Claire really made good points.

“A real hunter,” I continued, “Never goes around parading a kill. That’s too suburban. The real ones sit up in the mountains, feasting on hunks of legs, storing the bones in the corner to use as defense mechanisms for later.”

Claire sighed, “Nothing is real anymore.” We both abandoned the quiche, still warm on the table, and made our way into the living room to sit on her shag carpeting and dump out the contents of the box.

Claire crawls over to the television, a big montrous relic, more likely, with dials to change the channels and an ugly patterned tweed to cover the speakers. I can imagine its 1972, and some prepubescent teen is watching The Partridge Family on this thing. It’s just that authentic.

Claire plays with the dials, settling on an old Alfred Hitchcock film.