Sporting goods stores sell shotgun shells in half-case flats for a reason, The Boy thought, as he peeled into the top of another box and dumped its contents into the pouch that hung from his belt.

The brand of the shells he was using was also the name of a random direction on the compass, a point appropriate to match the quality of the shooting exhibition The Boy was putting on. Across the field and down the way he saw his dad shake his head and listened to the Old Man laugh.

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Kevin Tate is a freelance writer. Email kevinmtate@gmail.com

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