Grace
By the fourth morning, the routine felt less like a punishment and more like a rhythm.
Kent would knock twice at five in the morning, I would grab my jacket, and we would walk into the freezing clearing behind the house. The sky was always that same dark gray, the grass always wet beneath my boots.
On one of those mornings, I had gotten frustrated when I hadn't been able to land a shot on a moving target.
"This is stupid," I said, dropping my arms down to my sides. "The gun is too heavy, the sights are off, and I can barely feel my fingers. I’m a scientist, Kent. I don't do target practice in the woods at dawn."
"You aren't a scientist here, Grace," he said. His voice was close, right behind my shoulder. "Here, you're a target. Fire again."
"Why?" I snapped, turning around to f
