Page 111 of Pack Me Up
“A shooting range,” Brittney says, her voice sharp enough to chip a tooth.
I kill the engine and turn to her. “We don’t have to do this, if you’re not ready but I just want you to be prepared in case you ever find yourself in a situation where you need to protect yourself. Do you want to leave?”
She unbuckles, slowly. “I didn’t say that.”
Cody is first out, stretching like a cat and cracking his neck left to right. “Sleeping in the car always hurts my neck,” he says, but he’s already scanning the perimeter, eyes everywhere at once. Colton lumbers out after, hood up, hands in pockets, doing his best not to look tired.
Inside, it’s colder. The range is all cinderblock and rubber, the floor slicked with a film of ancient oil and gunpowder. A bored-looking beta behind the counter checks us in, never asking for ID. He just grunts and hands over a plastic bin of loaner earplugs and safety glasses.
The firing lanes are empty. Brittney hovers behind me, shifting from foot to foot, her arms crossed so tight it’s a wonder her ribs don’t snap.
I load a gun, slow and careful, then slide a fresh magazine to her across the steel table. She doesn’t touch it right away.
“Ever fired one?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Good. Clean slate.”
I show her the basics of how to grip, where to rest her finger, the weight of the slide, and the snap of the magazine when it sets. Her hands are small, but steady. There’s a tremor at the tips, but nothing that makes me think she can’t do this.
“It takes time getting used to, but you got this,” I say, keeping my tone light.
She nods, eyes locked on the gun like it’s a poisonous frog I’ve asked her to kiss.
We set up the big, cartoon silhouette target with a chest ringed in concentric circles. I take the first shot, just one where I show her what to do. The sound is a cannon blast in the empty room as I hit the target squarely in the center. Brittney flinches so hard she nearly hits me.
“You okay?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
She’s gone pale, lips pressed thin, but she nods once and steps forward. I stay close, not crowding but near enough to catch her if she decides to bail.
“Ready?” I say.
“Yeah.”
She raises the gun, arms locked, sighting down the barrel like she’s done this a hundred times in her head. For a second, nothing moves. Then, with an almost inaudible breath, she pulls the trigger.
The sound is so loud I feel it in my teeth.
The recoil snaps her wrist up, but she holds on. The bullet lands in the corner, tearing a ragged hole in the paper.
She stands there, frozen, the gun in her hand.
“Nice shot,” I say, gentle as I can.
But her breathing is shallow now, eyes wet and blinking fast. I see it: the way her body draws in, shrinking. The way her shoulders hunch like she’s waiting for a slap.
I set my own gun down and step in, slow.
“Hazel,” I say. “You with me?”
She looks up, and for a second, there’s nobody home. Then she blinks, hard, and the light comes back.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her hands shake worse than before.
I place a hand on her lower back with enough pressure to anchor, nothing more. She doesn’t pull away.
“Let’s breathe,” I say, matching my inhale to hers. “In, out. That’s it.”
