I have my younger brother’s company on the dark walk that proceeds the long drive. I hunt alone most of the time. Our work schedules are vastly different, leaving only a few sporadic mornings to get into turkey woods. Seven seasons ago, I called in his first ever bird, along with my third. We watched the quarter mile long display of bravado from our modest hut of twigs and palmetto, hearts pounding and eyes wide. The two companions took their sweet time, showing off feather and color to the lone hen decoy. My brother dropped the boss at 15 yards and I promptly took out his deceitful crony. After dust and feathers settled the annual addiction took hold of me for good.

Here we sit, once again sharing a thermacell and a little misery. I have a few more beards on the wall, but my brother has not killed a bird since. I haven't been to this patch of ground since deer season, and I’m not sure where they are roosting, but I know where they should be. I am over-excited to have company this weekend, but mostly to spend some rare time in the woods with my brother. As the horizon’s glow intensifies mosquitoes dissipate. I check my watch anxiously and wait for the relief of the first gobble.

It finally comes, a little further away than anticipated. I call from the edge our sun-drenched meadow, as bees zip through sun rays and across bloom-rich air, epitomizing spring. But no more gobbles. We commence the protocol of creep, call, creep, until my binoculars are scanning the spongy green floodplain they flew down into. Nothing- we haven't heard anything for close to an hour.

We cross the floodplain cautiously, uneasy and exposed. I can tell my brother thinks the hunt is over. I forgo the calling in order to expedite the creeping. An old mowed road separates oak hammock from citrus, where I suspect they were roosted. Each few steps are punctuated with binoculars in all directions. I glimpse a black lump further down the road, we both dive into shoulder brush before I can be sure its a turkey.

I call a few times with slate, then with diaphragm. Nothing. Doubt creeps into both of our heads as the minutes pass. Eyes long to see a hot white head bobbing down the road, pausing only to display impossibly colored black feathers. I creep out of the brush, inch by inch, until I can see down the road, there is still a turkey there, but I can’t look long enough to determine the sex. I settle back in behind my brother, scuff up the slate and place the diaphragm on my tongue. The two calls yelp Simultaneously. A newfound trick I decided to save for just such an occasion.

All at once we both know the sex of the bird as a gobble races down the road and dissipates into oaks. My binoculars pop up like a nervous periscope behind my brother, until I can see the white head, reality mirroring minds eye.

“Do you see him?” I squeak.

With a nod of confirmation I settle in to enjoy the show. He walks in confidently from 120 yards, stopping every 10 steps for the obligatory half strut. He limps into 60 yards, then stops at 50 yards. He has a swath of flesh and feathers dangling from his breast, dragging the ground. Somethings not right. He either expected to have seen a few hens by now, or he busted us. Despite the sun in his eyes and a hairy backdrop. He peels off deliberately.

“Shoot him.” I whisper from my brothers shoulder like a small red devil.

My brother read my mind as well as the bird’s, he raises the barrel and rolls him at 55 yards. A rather risky distance, we both rush in to secure the bird.

We indulge in the cocktail of adrenaline, disbelief and admiration. Telling each other the story back as if the other wasn't there. Upon further investigation we find that he has a baseball-sized hole of exposed tissue on his breast, surely from fighting. The meat resembles tree bark, scabby and olive drab. The flesh and feathers still drag the ground that once covered the battle wound. Maybe he saw us, or maybe this old warrior just new when something wasn't right.

Luckily the majority of the meat was salvageable. My brother and I filled the long drive home with giddy recollections and anecdotes. I'm proud of myself for calling a stubborn bird in, and for not giving up too early. I'm proud of my brother for falling right back into the woods after a hiatus, making a damn good shot and quick work of converting animal into meat. I bask in a high that feels exactly the same as if I would have killed a bird.