The brace on my right wrist stays strapped tight while the bones slowly knit back together. Seth doesn't want me touching a weapon with that hand yet, and Beau agrees.
So everything comes from my left.
The indoor range smells like oil and gunpowder. The room has concrete walls and hanging targets, with no windows and no distractions.
Beau doesn't stand in front of me like an instructor. He moves along the perimeter instead, his eyes fixed on my form. He watches for any hesitation, correcting me the moment my body falters.
“Again,” he orders.
I raise the gun. My left hand grips firm. My right hand comes in just enough to support, careful not to put pressure through the brace.
“Too open,” he adds. “You’re presenting your whole torso like you want to get shot.”
I adjust, turning slightly, angling my body so less of me faces the target.
“Better.” His gaze tracks my stance. “You’re not on a range. You’re in a hallway. Or a stairwell. Or a parking garage. Nobody gives you space to square up.”
I fire.
The recoil slams harder without my dominant hand. It snaps through my left wrist, travels up my forearm, and settles deep in my shoulder. My right hand absorbs what it can, but the brace still takes a dull, unwelcome jolt.
The round lands near the center.
Beau steps in and presses two fingers against my elbow, nudging it inward.
“Line your bones up,” he instructs. “If your frame’s crooked, the bullet will be too. Don’t fight physics. Use it.”
I reset and fire again closer.
He circles behind me.
“You’re still thinking about it. You hesitate half a second before the break.”
“I’m not hesitating.”
“You are. You’re asking your body if it’s ready. That’s how you lose.”
He steps into my peripheral vision and points toward the far wall.
“Move.”
I pivot left and fire.
“Your movement is loud,” he adds.
He walks up beside me and demonstrates, shifting his weight without lifting his boots fully, gliding instead of stepping.
“You don’t stomp. You slide. Control the sound.”
I mirror him. Shift. Pivot. Fire.
The round strikes center mass.
“Good. Again. Keep your shoulders down.”
My shoulder burns, the tremor in my left arm getting worse every shot. I tighten my grip anyway.
Beau steps close enough that I can feel him behind me.
