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Nothing is ever going to put it right. That’s what I tell myself. I need to stay alive. To survive. Anything else is a distraction. Anything else is impossible, and surviving probably is, too.
I rest the rifle over my lap. My fingertip traces the curve of the trigger. My dad told me when you fire a bullet from a rifle, it can go faster than the speed of sound. Aimed right, and you’re dead before you hear it. You never know it’s coming.
One single second, that’s all it takes.
I try not to think about it.
I think about Will instead. What would Will tell me to do? He’d tell me to make a plan, step by step, moment by moment. Which isn’t so different from what my dad told me, not so long ago. If you want a thing, make it happen, he said. Days ago, a lifetime ago.
I want to stay alive. And no one’s going to make that happen but me.
So I plan.
