Chapter 13
Over the next several weeks, Tuesday evenings became the anchor of Lucas’s life. The shooting range transformed from an intimidating barrier into a sanctuary of routine and structured growth. Under Arthur’s patient guidance and Marcus’s watchful, demanding oversight, Lucas honed his marksmanship, developing a reputation among the junior league for preternatural calm and absolute safety compliance. He never complained about the physical labor of policing brass after the sessions ended, often staying behind to sweep the concrete pads and pack away the shared gear long after the other kids had rushed off to their parents' cars.
One Thursday afternoon, outside of the regular Tuesday schedule, Marcus found Lucas sitting alone on a wooden bench near the edge of the range, carefully cleaning the bolt of an old training rifle with a patch and a bottle of solvent. The afternoon sun filtered through the tall pines, casting a dappled pattern of light and shadow across the clearing.
Marcus walked over, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel, and sat down on the opposite end of the bench. He rested his forearms on his knees, taking off his sunglasses to wipe the dust from the lenses with the hem of his polo shirt. Without his shades, his eyes looked older, tired, but remarkably kind.
“Your mother came by the main office yesterday to settle the club registration dues for the quarter,” Marcus said, his voice measured and quiet. “She mentioned you’re entering the regional youth championship next month.”
Lucas looked up from the rifle bolt, wiping a smear of dark oil from his thumb onto a rag. “I am,” he replied steadily. “The entry fee was covered by the memorial scholarship fund Arthur told me about.”
Marcus nodded slowly, putting his sunglasses back on. “Arthur has a good eye for talent, but he saw something else in you on that first day, Lucas. We both did. When you walked onto that line with your dad’s rifle, you weren't just a kid looking to shoot. You were carrying a piece of his history. That kind of focus can’t be taught in a textbook. It comes from having something worth protecting.”
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Lucas remained silent for a moment, letting the older man’s words settle deep within him. He looked down at the polished steel of the bolt in his hands, reflecting the bright afternoon sky. “He taught me everything I know about patience,” Lucas whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind rustling the pine needles. “He always said that when life gets loud and complicated, you have to slow down your breathing, block out the noise, and focus entirely on what’s right in front of you.”
Marcus reached out and patted the boy’s shoulder firmly—a gesture of profound respect from one generation of shooter to the next. “Your dad was right, son. And you’re doing him proud.”
