Chapter 12
The following Tuesday evening, the sun hung low over the western tree line as Lucas walked back up the gravel access road toward the county shooting range. This time, he didn't carry the heavy .308 rifle in its frayed canvas bag. Instead, he wore a simple canvas backpack containing a pair of safety glasses, ear protection, and the small business card Arthur had handed him days earlier. The walk felt different—lighter, less burdened by the invisible wall of suspicion that had greeted him on his first visit.
When he reached the perimeter of the white tent, the atmosphere was much more relaxed than it had been during the competitive weekend relay. A dozen young boys and girls, ranging in age from twelve to sixteen, stood in a loose semi-circle around one of the long wooden benches. Marcus stood near the center, wearing his characteristic black Leupold polo shirt and sunglasses, while Arthur worked at the bench, laying out several single-shot bolt-action .22 training rifles and boxes of standard velocity ammunition.
As Lucas approached, Marcus looked up from his clipboard and gave a short, firm nod of recognition. It wasn't a warm, beaming smile, but it carried genuine professional respect—an acknowledgment that the boy had earned his place through discipline and skill rather than special treatment.
“You’re right on time, Henderson,” Marcus called out over the chatter of the other youths. “Grab a mat and a pair of earplugs from the box. We’re starting with standing position fundamentals at fifty yards today.”
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Arthur smiled warmly as Lucas walked over to the bench, sliding a lightweight .22 rifle off the rack. The rifle was well-maintained, its blued steel clean and its walnut stock polished smooth from years of use by young hands learning the craft. “Glad you made the call, son,” Arthur said quietly, handing him a paper box of twenty rounds of ammunition. “Remember what we talked about regarding breathing control? It applies just as much to a smallbore at fifty yards as it does to a heavy rifle at two hundred.”
Lucas nodded, taking the box of cartridges and sliding them into his pocket. He unrolled his rubber mat on the grass a few feet down from the other kids, feeling the familiar, grounding texture beneath his sneakers. As he settled into position, shouldering the lighter rifle and peering through the iron sights instead of a high-powered scope, he felt a profound sense of peace settle over him. The weight of the past year—the hospital bills, the empty rooms, the heavy silences at home—seemed to recede into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of his own breathing and the clear, uncomplicated focus of the task at hand.
