What is that?

‍ ‍You know what that is, I reply to every man pointing at my folding knife.

A secretive joy crosses his face before he asks to see it–unfolding it, tapping the tip, pushing the mechanism to the side to close it again. Hardly wanting to hand it back. Only northern men are like that; there’s no good reason for them to have a hunting knife. There’s nothing to hunt up here. Another didn’t want to touch it, said I probably know how to use it better than him. If he means I’d be able to stab a threat if that time ever comes, he is right. It's in my blood; I’d gut them like a fish. My father caught and cleaned fish in the kitchen sink, it's an introduction to learning to break the skin.