The yetis scatter at the sound of gunfire. Earlier they’d frolicked in the snowbank with an owl frozen hard overnight, such that it became useful in their games. The yetis hurled the owl back and forth into each others eager and outstretched arms, a frenetic match of owlball that broke the thick blood vessels in their cheeks and colored their faces with a ruby glow that you could just make out beneath the fur.
Then the gun cracked in early evening, a cousin in sound to a glacier calving. Its echo caromed all around the mountain bowl that made their home such that no yeti could place the hunter.
The seven yetis ran each in his own direction.
The yeti Matt crested the caldera first and rolled down the mountain to San Francisco, after a brief visit to see his family in upstate New York.
The yeti Chris crested next, pausing along the way to scoop up his girlfriend Melissa, and together they rolled down the other side of the mountain to Manhattan.
The yeti Michael R. crested shortly thereafter, tethering himself to nearby Bloomington, Indiana, while he prepared for a great swan dive into the aether.
The yeti Greg stopped running once he smelled a rabbit roasting on a skewer, and happily helped himself to a free meal.
The yeti Michael M. stopped running when he heard music coming from a nearby cave, and went to go check out who was playing.
The yeti Nate stopped running almost immediately and sat down.
The yeti Jon, smallest of all, ran blindly, feeling the tug of all directions at once and fearing every rugged route down to the mountain’s meadows. He reached the thin brim of the bowl and began to circle it at a pace that belied his panic, searching for distant friends or returning his gaze homeward lest another yeti should leave him.
He circled the brim until the last sunlight drifted into the sea and the blinding snow blued, and then a shot rang out as clear as river water and he tumbled down the snowbank, back into the great bowl.
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