Chapter IV “I could use some glue.”

  The store was a basic square—unremarkable at first glance, but cluttered with everything the Second Amendment faithful could dream of.

  The walls were paneled in faded brown, lined with weapons of every shape and caliber. Counters wrapped around the entire interior perimeter, enclosing racks full of camo gear, weapon accessories, and T-shirts bearing slogans that screamed “Come and Take It” or “1776 Forever.”

  Nathaniel weaved his way through the thick crowd—mostly men, gruff and camo-clad. He moved with quiet purpose toward the nearest counter, where a barrel-chested man stood typing behind the register. The guy had a thick beard and a handlebar mustache that looked like it had been carved from a motorcycle catalog.

  Nathaniel gave the man a quick nod, hoping for some kind of affirmation. The man returned the gesture with a grin that said we’re speaking the same language.

  “I’m looking to do some shooting.”

  The man nodded again, his fingers already dancing across a nearby keyboard while his other hand worked the register.

  “Sure thing. Brought your own ammo, or buying here? Need targets, ear protection—what’s the loadout?”

  Nathaniel responded by lifting a black handgun case onto the glass display. He opened it and slid out a box of ammo.

  The man leaned forward and lifted the case with ease, his hands big and meaty like construction tools. From beneath the counter he produced a black object shaped like a thick magnet, ran it quickly over the case, and examined its contents. Inside: a pistol, a loading aid, a simple pipe cleaner.

  He gave a nod of approval. “You’re good.”

  Then came the hand on his shoulder—firm, friendly, and impossible to mistake.

  “Look at this little man right here.”

  Nathaniel turned and broke into a grin just before he was swallowed by a bear hug. Standing before him was James—six feet of sun-kissed blond chaos. His smile practically glowed, Ken-doll perfect, and it stretched ear to ear like a billboard come to life.

  Nathaniel returned the hug. When they separated, James put up his fist and gave a few playful jabs. Nathaniel shook his head and slowly turned toward the cashier.

  “Sorry about him,” he muttered.

  “James!” Clayton snapped, delivering a light slap to the back of James’ head.

  Clayton had materialized from the shirt rack, his dark skin and aviators, mixed with the afro he was combing, to give him that Mr. T style that was rare nowadays.

  James erupted into that yokel laugh of his—deep, giddy, and soaked in Tennessee marshwater.

  “A day at the range with my boys!” he howled, now throwing his arm around Clayton’s shoulder and rubbing his knuckles into Clayton’s scalp like a mischievous older brother.

  Nathaniel could feel the attention turning toward them. A few customers had stopped browsing. Some scowled.

  He knew they needed to move. Fast. Before James’s antics drew the attention of someone they really didn’t want to run into.

  But he couldn’t be mad.

  James had always been like this—wild, boyish, utterly himself. Not even the accident could steal that from him.

  Not the two tours in Iraq. Not the shrapnel from an RPG that nearly split his skull. Nathaniel could still see the dent just above James’s temple, a reminder that he should’ve died. And after the accident— his face was a tapestry of pain and near death.

  And yet here he was—still laughing like the world hadn’t beaten it out of him.

  Nathaniel smiled.

  Because, no matter what, James was still James.

  Nathaniel turned back to the clearly annoyed—but professionally calm—cashier and finished the purchase. He added an extra shooting lane and picked up five fresh targets.

  He glanced at the boys, then pointed to a heavy door toward the back of the shop. A red warning light blinked above it, alongside caution signs about hearing and eye protection.

  “Smack him for me, James,”Clayton said with a smirk as he walked past.

  James snorted, spun toward Nathaniel, and took one final jab at his stomach before fast-walking after him, giggling like a delinquent kid.

  Clayton followed behind, rubbing his temple and sighing as he tried to look like the mature one. “Bad boy, James,” he muttered just as the door slammed shut behind them.

  The hallway led to two doors—one on the left, one on the right. Without a word, the group took the left.

  To their surprise, the range was empty.

  “Nice! Nate, we up in this bitch!” Clayton yelled, bouncing down the lane with exaggerated steps, arms flailing like a kid at recess.

  Nathaniel chuckled. Watching Clayton try to act like the sane one was about as believable as a clown flying a 747.

  The range stretched long—at least the length of two school buses. Target zip lines hung between the shooting stalls, and large numbers painted in white—1 to 10—dotted the length of the space.

  The men walked all the way to the far end and claimed stalls one and two.

  Nathaniel set his kit down in lane One. Clayton dropped into lane Two with far less grace, accidentally letting a loaded magazine hit the ground with a metallic clatter.

  “You’re such a klutz, Clayton,” Nathaniel said, sliding rounds into his second magazine.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Clayton didn’t look up. Instead, he sang a response in a childish jingle:

  “Nates a bad boy, always a bad boy”

  Then, without missing a beat, he pantomimed a crude gesture. Nathaniel stifled a laugh and slipped on his protective eyewear and earmuffs.

  The others followed suit.

  Behind him, James appeared again, grinning that wide, boyish grin as he reached up and gave Nathaniel’s head a few pats.

  “What’s been going on, buddy? How’ve you been?”

  Nathaniel finished loading his pistol. He pulled the slide back and let it slam forward with a satisfying clack.

  His expression shifted—hardening, darkening.

  He looked back at James.

  James still wore that same open, warm look—but behind it, Nathaniel could see something else.

  Something broken. A weight behind the eyes.

  “I’ve been better, James,” Nathaniel said quietly. “The nightmares aren’t as frequent… and I’m trying to get out more.”

  He paused. His voice lowered.

  “What about you, James? You just got back from… there. How was it?”

  James didn’t answer right away. He stared downrange and pressed the switch to recall the target zip line. The cable hummed and began drawing the target back toward them.

  “It’s bad over there, Nate,” James muttered, eyes still forward.

  “I was scared for a while…”

  His voice trailed off.

  Nathaniel could almost hear the gears turning behind that grin.

  James’s expression never changed—still that warm, familiar smile—but Nathaniel caught it: a flicker of moisture in his eyes. Just for a second. Then James blinked it away and busied himself attaching a target to the zipline.

  “I trusted God, though,” James said, still smiling. “And He got me back, Nate.”

  There was real enthusiasm in his voice—sincere, almost childlike—and it was one of the things Nathaniel had always admired about him.

  But now, underneath that hope, he could hear something else.

  Fatigue.

  The weariness in James’s voice was new, but the rest wasn’t. The black bags under his eyes—those had started showing up after his second deployment. Nathaniel had heard about the nightmares. About the accident. About the way James would freeze, staring at blank TV screens or empty yards for hours. How even the faintest sound would make him jump.

  And still—he never complained. Never whined.

  His first thought was always about someone else.

  Always about his friends.

  “Here, James. You go first, brother.”

  Nathaniel picked up the loaded Glock 19 and handed it over.

  James looked to him, eyes searching for some kind of reassurance. Nathaniel gave it with a nod. James grinned, turned, and aimed the gun downrange.

  His whole demeanor shifted in an instant—like a kid with a new toy.

  “Nate, look—I’m you!” he called out in a goofy tone.

  “Stop! This is Sheriff dork! Put—”

  Clayton rushed over from his stall and began slapping James lightly on the arm, glancing around the range with wide, nervous eyes.

  James burst into laughter and finally set the pistol down on the metal stand in front of him.

  “Go ahead, Nate,” he said, still chuckling.

  Nathaniel stepped forward and picked up the weapon. His grip tightened as he raised it, sighting down the lane.

  Three years of combined training—Marines and Sheriff’s Office—had drilled the process into his bones.

  Sight picture. Breath control. Slack reset.

  Always the same.

  He lined up the iron sights perfectly, centering them on the paper target—a standard silhouette, black and red against a white backdrop.

  But something shifted.

  His vision blurred.

  For just a heartbeat, Nathaniel thought he saw something behind the target. A dark shape.

  Not a shadow. Not a trick of the light.

  Something… watching.

  He blinked.

  Gone.

  Probably the berm. Or the weird color contrast of the room. That was all.

  He refocused.

  Take up the slack.

  The trigger always had a little give—just a bit of tension before the break.

  But then, without warning, a cold sweat gripped him—fast and heavy, like a weight slammed into his chest. His hands trembled. He lowered the gun slightly and glanced out of the corner of his eye.

  Behind him, Clayton and James were mid-argument.

  “I’m telling you, man, you can’t be that loud in public,” Clayton hissed.

  “It’s fine, Clayton. Stop bein’ a weenie.”

  “Oh, Nate, punish him,” Clayton groaned, throwing his arms up in mock surrender as James—now fully committed—wrapped him up and started swatting him playfully on the head.

  Nathaniel didn’t speak.

  He just stood there, staring down the lane.

  Waiting for whatever came next.

  Nathaniel smiled and returned his focus to the weapon.

  He steadied his grip, exhaled, and slowly pressed the trigger.

  The shot cracked like thunder. The recoil surged up his arm as the bullet raced downrange, punching through the center of the target.

  Dead center.

  James slide by Nathaniel again, the two communicating without even speaking. James took the pistol and inserted a new magazine in. Within an instant James was on target and in a quick session firing on the target before the gun ran empty and he loaded another magazine. Out of the twelve shots four were headshots, two were neck and the other six were center mass in a tight grouping.

  Grinning, Nathaniel followed through with the rest—twelve rounds in total. Each one smooth, precise. Controlled.

  Clayton did the same in the next stall, and soon both targets downrange were riddled with clean, clustered holes. Center mass. High score.

  Nathaniel dropped the empty magazine to the counter with a practiced motion and turned to James for approval—

  —but James wasn’t paying attention.

  He was on his phone, thumb tapping away as incoming texts beeped in rapid succession.

  Nathaniel frowned, watching.

  “Nice! Benny’s throwing a party!” James said suddenly, lighting up.

  He glanced at Clayton, who was mid-reset on a jammed pistol. Then, without warning, James gave him a firm shove—enough to bump him against the stall wall. Clayton stumbled, letting out a startled grunt.

  “James! Bad boy!” Clayton snapped, eyes flashing.

  “Bet it'll be better than your party with Becks,” James snorted.

  “James, I’m going to a party with Becks. You know, girls like Samantha Rinehart and Leslie Gomez? That’s way better than lame-ass Benny.”

  “Benny’s cool! And he’s not lame—, you weenie!”

  With another cackle, James lunged at him again, dragging Clayton into a half-chokehold. Clayton thrashed, trying to break free, but James just laughed harder, refusing to let go.

  Nathaniel sat still.

  He watched them. Wrestling. Laughing.

  And a silence pressed down on him from the inside out.

  He had hoped tonight would be different.

  He had hoped to just be with his friends—to have someone with him after everything that had happened. To chase away the weight. To forget, even just for a few hours.

  But he knew better.

  He’d heard them talking about the parties earlier in the week. He’d known they had plans. He just... hoped something might change.

  It hadn’t.

  And he wouldn’t be the one to ruin their night.

  James finally let go and rubbed Clayton’s head. “You wanna come, Nate? I could talk to Benny about it—he remembers you from cadets.”

  Nathaniel didn’t even bother answering right away. He could already see how it would play out:

  He’d show up. James would get pulled into some loud room or corner of the party, socializing like it was a sport.

  Nathaniel would be left to wander, trying to connect with people who didn’t really care.

  He’d end up in a chair or hallway corner, alone, silently watching strangers laugh.

  Remembering what it felt like to be forgotten.

  “No. It’s fine, James. I’ll just hang at home. Play a game or two, you know?”

  James patted him on the back, rubbing his shoulder as his hand departed.

  Clayton grabbed his gear and glanced at them. “You ready?”

  The three of them began walking back toward the front of the range. Nathaniel trailed just behind, then paused—his eyes drifting back to the paper target downrange.

  Twelve rounds.

  A perfect circle.

  A kill shot.

  “Man,” Nathaniel murmured, almost proud. “I’m a damn good shot.”

  He smiled faintly.

  Then turned back toward the doorway where his friends had been.

  But they were already gone.

  He stood there alone.

  The empty range echoed with nothing.

  His smile faded.

  “No,” Nathaniel whispered to the vacant room ahead of him.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”