PART 2 — THE TARGET CAME BACK
The paper silhouette moved slowly along the retrieval line.
The young marksman watched it approach.
His handgun was still lowered in his right hand.
His expression had changed.
The cocky smile was gone.
The elderly woman stood beside him, still holding the vintage shotgun.
She didn't look at him.
She only watched the target.
The paper silhouette finally reached the firing line.
The young man stared at it.
Then his eyebrows lifted.
A clean grouping sat exactly where it mattered.
He looked closer.
Then looked at the woman.
"Wait."
She remained silent.
He stepped toward the target.
"That's your shot?"
The grandmother calmly nodded once.
He looked back at the paper.
Then at her old shotgun.
Then back at the paper.
"With that?"
Still no answer.
His friendlier tone was gone now.
He sounded confused.
"How?"
The elderly woman finally turned toward him.
Her voice was quiet.
"You were watching the gun."
He frowned.
"What was I supposed to watch?"
"Me."
He stared at her.
She continued:
"People make that mistake all the time."
The young marksman looked down at his own handgun.
"I've been shooting for years."
The grandmother gave him a calm look.
"I can tell."
He seemed almost relieved.
Then she added:
"That's why I know you're still trying to impress the target."
His face tightened.
"What does that mean?"
"You are thinking about the shot before you've finished making it."
He looked at her.
For the first time, he wasn't offended.
He was listening.
The grandmother slowly rested the shotgun against her side.
"You rushed."
"I hit the target."
"Yes."
She looked toward his lane.
"But you were celebrating before you knew where you hit."
The young man glanced at his own target.
His earlier confidence suddenly felt embarrassing.
He looked back at her.
"So what are you saying?"
The grandmother's pale blue eyes remained steady.
"I'm saying accuracy doesn't care how confident you feel."
Silence.
The young man swallowed.
Then he looked at the vintage shotgun.
"Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
The woman didn't answer.
She looked downrange.
For a moment, something distant seemed to pass through her expression.
Not fear.
Not sadness.
Memory.
Then she said:
"A long time ago."
"Military?"
She finally looked at him.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because nobody handles a weapon like that by accident."
A faint smile touched her face.
"That's the first intelligent thing you've said to me."
The young man almost laughed.
But he stopped himself.
He looked at the target again.
Then quietly said:
"Who were you?"
The grandmother turned toward the firing line.
"Someone you would have respected if you'd met me before the gray hair."
He stared at her.
"Before the gray hair?"
She nodded.
"Before the wrinkles."
She paused.
"Before people started assuming I was finished."
The young man lowered his eyes.
He was beginning to understand that the woman standing beside him had lived an entirely different life from the one he had imagined.
Then the range officer's voice sounded from farther down the facility.
"Next target!"
The grandmother raised her shotgun again.
The young man stepped back.
This time, he didn't laugh.
He watched her hands.
He watched her stance.
He watched every small movement.
And when she settled behind the weapon again, he suddenly realized something.
She wasn't trying to prove herself to him.
She had never been trying to.
She was simply doing what she had done for decades.
The young marksman looked at her.
"Ma'am."
She glanced over.
He hesitated.
Then quietly asked:
"Can I see the target?"
She handed it to him.
He held the paper in both hands.
His expression changed.
There was something almost uncomfortable about the realization.
The woman he had mocked had just demonstrated a level of control he hadn't expected from someone her age.
But he still didn't know the most important part.
May you like
He still didn't know why she had that kind of skill.
And the answer was about to come from somewhere he never expected.
