Years passed quickly with Pop. Miraculously, no one from either Imhullu or the government came sniffing around, which was a testament to how good of a deceiver Pop was. Even more amazingly, no one questioned my forged identification documents, and Pop seemed confident that the government considered me a lost weapons asset.

In my time at home, Pop taught me about life. About right and wrong. He told me horror stories from Vietnam, and when I got older, he confessed that he had done terrible, evil things in the name of fighting what the government had tried to bill as a justified warfare. Once, after divulging a particularly brutal tale about killing all the women and children in a village because they had aided a group Viet Cong in killing half of his flight who'd been downed by enemy anti-aircraft, he cupped his weathered hands over mine at the table in the kitchen and implored that I make my life different. I still recall him speaking in strained, hushed tones. 

"Don't be like me, Meriwa," he'd said while regarding me with a tired, world-wary expression. 

I shuddered as I looked into his weathered face as he'd plead with his dark eyes for me to be something better than him. In that moment, I'd realized how much Pop reminded me of my brother. The strength. The Courage. The resolve.

"You remind me of 08A, Pop." I said while cutting my gaze from his eyes to where he clasped my hands in his.

When my voice shook at the end of my sentence, his hand squeezed mine. "It's alright to be sad, darlin.' Your brother sounds like he was a good boy."

I smiled, but tears pooled in the corners of my eyes. "I miss him."

Now it was difficult to see through my tears, but I could still make out the form of Pop nodding sagely. After a moment, he released my hands and cleared his throat before he explained, "I miss Yuka every day, too. But we gotta keep going, don't we?" 

I had nodded in, although I didn't always feel like those words Pop spoke were true.

Did we always need to keep going? Who the hell made that asinine rule? The idea that I needed to soldier on even when I didn't want to seemed decidedly stupid, especially when I was the monster. And, why should I keep living when I didn't want to anymore? 08A had said we Hunters were monsters, too, and even though I was no longer at Imhullu, I was still a Hunter. I was an elite killer. I was a monster, and the monsters deserved to die. At least, that's what we'd been taught. Sometimes, dark thoughts like these would consume me, especially on nights where I had the dreams, the nightmares that I was back at Imhullu. There were some horrors I never fully recovered from even years after escaping the brutality of the facility.

The dark, for instance, always made me uncomfortable. We were taught to fear the dark at Imhullu because that's where the monsters would hide, and there'd been many times at Pop's place when I sat on the porch overlooking the heavily wooded mountainscape at night, and I'd feel it, that creeping chill. 

The fear. 

Whenever Pop would notice me moving farther from reality, he'd do his best to bring me back to the present. He taught me some tricks he used whenever his thoughts would go back to the war, and I continued to use those coping mechanisms thought the rest of my life.

Nevertheless, the question would always nag at me: Why did I need to keep going? Especially with my brother dead and knowing what I was created to do?

When I turned 16, he brought up the topic of going to college one night over dinner. "You're brilliant, kiddo. You need to get out there. Get some degrees. See the world."

I remember laughing before spearing another forkful of hamburger helper and shoving that into my mouth. "You're crazy, old man. Who'd take care of you if I went away?"

He had looked down at his plate, then, twirling his fork in his pasta, seemingly embarrassed. "I'd get by."

I softened, sensing his guilt over the knowledge that I was staying at home for him. "I know you would, Pop. But, I want to be here."

He had smiled a little at my words, but they did little to quell the look of worry in his eyes. "Yuka would make you go, though."

"I'm sure Ma would have." I smiled, wishing for the thousandth time that I could have met the woman who had meant so much to Pop.

Sadly, though, the older I got, the weaker Pop became. Following our college discussion, for five solid years, his health declined slowly. First, his mind started slipping, then his body. One day, he developed a nasty cough that quickly turned into pneumonia. With him bedridden, he still refused to let me drive down to Coldfoot to get the doctor and was adamant that wasn't "nothin' that man can do." So, that's where he stayed for several weeks until one night, he called me in to his bedroom.

"Sit down there, child. I got a few things to tell you." My heart skipped. Part of me deep inside knew this was the end for him, but I didn't want to recognize that fact.

"Sure, Pop." I recall saying while dreading what was to come.

***

He paused momentarily to gather his tragically confused thoughts before beginning. "Well, you know I ain't got long yet."

"Don't say that, Pop."

"Why not? It's true, ain't it? We all gotta go when our time comes."

I teared up as I sat at the foot of his bed, watching him while nervously twiddling with the quilt Yuka had made, which was slung over his lap. He watched me silently for a moment with his milky, aged eyes before continuing.

"When I go, I want you to get outta here. Go south. Live with people. You're 21 and you ain't really lived yet, Meriwa."

Tears fell from my eyes now as I finally dared to look at him. I didn't want him to see me cry, althought he way his vision had been going, he probably couldn't see me crying right now anyway. "Pop, don't think like that. Let's just call the doc or-"

He cut me off, face reddening with the force of his words. "I told you, I don't want no doctors."

He ceased speaking so that he could take my hand in his. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "I'm old, Meriwa. It's just my time." 

I nodded even though I didn't want to face the reality that was how it would end for him. This vivacious, kind, energetic man was reduced to... to this. The worn, tired old figure I saw before me. Pop coughed, the rattling in his chest making my heart ache before he took in enough breath to continue.

"You need a life, darlin'. Take your money and go make one."

"Ok, Pop." I agreed even though thoughts about what I was going to do after Pop's death were the last things on my mind. I could tell all this talking was making him weaker, and I just wanted him to rest.

"And, you cain't go lookin' for your brother. I know you said he probably ain't alive, but there's a chance he is. If whoever did what they did to you found out you're alive, I don't know what they'd do. But, I sure as hell know it wouldn't be good, kiddo."

"I won't, Pop. I won't look for him. Don't worry." I wiped my eyes and took a deep cleansing breath before asking him, "Why don't I get you something to eat?"

"I don't want no food, darlin'." He paused, and I waited patiently for him to collect his thoughts, which were far more sluggish than I'd ever noticed before. "We got any of that whiskey left, though?"

I smiled, wiping my eyes again and sniffling. "Sure do, but Doc said you shouldn't drink with your blood pressure medication." He snorted in disgust and opened his mouth as if he was going to tell me off, but my grin widened as I finished speaking before he could say anything.

"Know what I think, Pop? I say to hell with Doc. Why don't we ignore him for tonight?"

Pop smiled brilliantly and looked at me with his sweet yet sad eyes. "I raised you up right, didn't I?"

"You sure did, Pop." 

I said as I stood and poured us both a hefty glass of cheap whiskey from the bottle that always rested on the top of his dresser. I tried to stop my tears and my shaking hand as I poured. When I returned to his side with the drinks, I slipped one glass into his hand. Pop managed to hold his long enough to toast to Yuka, but I then had to help him lift it to his lips so that he could swallow.

That night, I dozed fitfully in the chair at the head of Pop's bed, waking up numerous times throughout the night to check on him. In the morning, I awoke to find Pop had died in his sleep. I held his cold, stiff hand and cried for hours before finally awaking from my stupor and making the necessary arrangements. The knowledge that it had been bound to happen did little to ease my grief over the loss while I made the phone calls I needed to make.

I had him cremated because the permafrost wasn't suitable for digging a proper grave, and my heart ached as I scattered his ashes on the mountain where he had scattered Ma' Yuka's remains five years before the fateful day when he found me.

***

I spent the next few months wallowing in my own pain. I had just lost my last true relative. With Pop gone and 08A probably dead, I was utterly alone. But, I was pragmatic. Even as I mourned the heartbreaking loss, I tried to plan my next moves. Pop had told me that I had to get out and see the world, but I didn't how could I do that without him.

Pop had saved me. He'd taught me how the real world worked, how people live. But, he was gone now, his dying wish for me to get out and live in the world still fresh in my memory. I had to honor his pleas and make a real life for myself, even if I didn't believe myself capable.

Knowing these facts, I packed a beaten-up suitcase with clothes and other necessities, including the few pictures Pop had of him and Ma' Yuka. As I packed, I lovingly touched the image of them on their wedding day after getting married by the justice of the peace in Fairbanks. The photo was blurry, clearly taken in haste by an unknowing bystander who had probably happened upon their special day. Despite the informality of both the ceremony and the photograph, though, a youthful Pop and Yuka beamed at each other, love and tenderness in each of their gazes. There was a marked contrast between her petite frame and dark complexion and his tall, burly physique, blindingly white skin, and air force uniform.

"Love is a funny thing," I thought, while looking at Pop with his arms around his nearly comically different new bride. I missed him terribly as I slipped the photograph into my suitcase, storing it with the others.

I also threw the money given to me by my brother, very little of which Pop or I had spent, my weapons, and the forged documents Pop had gotten for me into a backpack. With all my stuff finally packed, I put my bags by the door and made a final circuit of the house, saying goodbye to Pop and my memories.

After the goodbyes, I grabbed the keys to his beaten-up pick-up off the hall tree and shut the door behind me, locking it securely. I turned back around to face the cabin after loading up the truck. Every inch of the hand-hewn building reminded me of Pop, and it was somewhat comforting to know that he would always be part of this place.

Still having no idea where I was heading, I whispered goodbye on the wind before hopping into the truck and driving away.