Ten
“Wait, hang on,” Calla says to me. “Your grip isn’t quite right.”
“Seriously? I thought I’d got it by now.”
“Almost.” She walks closer and adjusts the position of my fingers around the knife’s handle. “There.” She steps back. “Try again.”
I face the tree and the round frisbee-sized target Calla transformed from a stick. I repeat her instructions in my head yet again, trying to turn the steps into one fluid motion. Then I raise the knife, swing my arm forward, and let go. The knife spins through the air, whacking the target a second later. The blade strikes first—which is a lot less embarrassing than the handle striking first—but the angle’s off, and the knife bounces away and lands on the ground beside the other knives that have failed to impale the target. I stare at it for a mome
