Page 113 of Gunnar

“Can you shoot?” Gunnar asks.

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.

“No.”

He nods. “Come here.”

I walk over.

He picks one up and hands it to me.

A black handgun. Compact, solid, the grip rough where my fingers close around it. The weight pulls at my hand straight away. I shift my grip, trying to steady it without looking like I don’t know what I’m doing.

Gunnar steps in behind me. His hand comes over mine, adjusting my fingers, turning my wrist.

“Finger off the trigger.”

I move it.

“Good.”

He shifts my other hand into place, presses it there.

“Hold it.”

I try.

“Safety,” he says, nudging my thumb. “There.”

I flick it.

“Back.”

I do it again.

He steps away, leaving me holding it on my own.

“Two hands.”

I bring my other hand up, settling into something that feels less likely to slip.

He watches for a moment, then jerks his head toward the door. “Let’s go outside.”

Cold air hits as we step into the clearing.

He points at a tree.

“See that knot? About shoulder height.”

I find it. A dark circle in the bark.

“Two hands. Like I showed you.”

I lift the gun. My arms don’t feel steady.

“Take the safety off.”

I do.