Chapter 11
The front screen door of the small rental house let out a familiar, high-pitched squeak as Lucas pushed it open and stepped inside. The house was quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the old refrigerator in the corner of the cramped kitchen. The air inside smelled faintly of lemon bleach and old paper, a scent that had defined his life for the past year.
His mother, Sarah, sat at the small formica kitchen table, the pool of yellow light from the overhead lamp illuminating the stacks of medical bills and past-due notices spread out before her. She looked up as he entered, her tired eyes softening instantly when she saw him. A pale, exhausted smile touched the corners of her lips, though the deep lines of chronic worry remained etched around her eyes and mouth.
“You’re back late,” Sarah said softly, pushing a stray strand of light brown hair behind her ear as she closed a red ledger book. “How did it go? Did they let you on the line?”
Lucas let the worn canvas gun bag slide carefully to the floor beside the door, making sure it didn't bang against the linoleum. He walked over to the table and pulled out the folded scorecard from his pocket, laying it flat under the warm glow of the lamp.
Sarah looked down at the paper. Her eyes scanned the neat, handwritten notes signed by Arthur and the official range stamp stamped across the corner. She read the score—four out of five inside the ten ring at two hundred yards—and a sharp intake of breath escaped her lips. She looked up at her son, her eyes suddenly shining with unshed tears that she quickly blinked away.
“Your father would have been so proud of you, Lucas,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. She reached across the table and took his small, calloused hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. “He spent years teaching you patience, but I never imagined you’d walk onto a county line and prove yourself like this on the very first try.”
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Lucas didn't smile boastfully; he simply squeezed her hand back, feeling the warmth of shared survival pass between them. “They have a junior mentorship program,” Lucas said quietly, pulling Arthur’s business card from his pocket and placing it beside the scorecard. “Arthur said I can come back on Tuesdays. They’ll help with ammo and maintenance.”
Sarah stared at the card for a long moment, the practical reality of their situation weighing heavily on her shoulders. But looking at her son’s determined expression—the exact same set of the jaw his father had worn during his final, difficult months—she knew she couldn't stand in his way. This wasn't just about shooting; it was about resilience, identity, and finding a path forward when all the doors seemed to be firmly bolted from the outside.
