Chapter 10
The gravel crunched rhythmically under Lucas’s sneakers as he made his way down the winding access road away from the county range. The afternoon heat was beginning to break, replaced by the cool, crisp breeze rolling down from the pine-covered hills above the valley. In the distance, the sun was turning the sky into a bruised palette of purple, orange, and deep amber, casting long, dramatic shadows across the abandoned fields that bordered the highway. He kept his right hand anchored securely to the strap of the worn canvas gun bag, feeling the familiar, comforting weight of the Remington 700 resting against his back.
As he walked, the events of the afternoon replayed in his mind like frames of an old film reel. He remembered the barrier of hostility under the white tent, the stern face of the man in the black shirt, and the cold skepticism of the spectators who had judged him by his torn hoodie and mud-caked shoes. But more vividly than any of that, he remembered the exact moment he had settled into the prone position, aligned the crosshairs, and let the first round fly true. That single, perfect grouping on the target board felt like more than just a victory in marksmanship; it felt like a declaration of his right to exist, to take up space, and to carry forward a legacy that the world had tried to quietly erase.
A rusted pickup truck rumbled past him on the highway, kicking up a small cloud of grey dust that settled over the dry grass by the roadside. The driver gave a brief, casual honk of the horn, and Lucas raised his free hand in a restrained, automatic acknowledgment. He was still miles away from the rented house on River Road, but the long walk didn't feel as daunting as it had earlier that morning when he started out with a knot of anxiety twisting tight in his stomach. The business card Arthur had given him rested securely in his pocket, a tiny anchor of hope in an otherwise uncertain sea. He wondered what his mother would say when she saw the target scorecard he had quietly slipped into his pocket before leaving the range, signed and dated by Arthur himself.
